


we're gonna rattle this ghost town

by lepidopteran



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Drug Use, F/F, M/M, Multi, Praise Kink, Slow Build, Slow Burn, dumb squatter boyfriends, hand-holding, squatter au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-27 18:12:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lepidopteran/pseuds/lepidopteran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Marius Pontmercy puts himself through law school while dealing with boners, condemned buildings, and stupid boy feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. can you stand me on my feet?

Marius wakes up in an unfamiliar bed. If it can be called a bed – he can feel the floor under his shoulder blades, pressing through the thin mattress. He thinks of his bed at his grandfather's house, a queen-sized four-poster with a down featherbed, and he doesn't allow himself to feel regret.  
  
The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is blinding sunlight, spilling in through a hole in the crumbling ceiling. He throws one arm over his eyes.  
  
Marius hears voices from another room, speaking in the low tones of those who know they have an unfamiliar houseguest. He catches the smell of coffee and this motivates him to fling off the sheets wrapped around his body and rise, still in yesterday's clothes, a crinkled white shirt and khakis. He pushes his messy curls out of his face and pads through the open doorway.  
  
Courfeyrac stops speaking in mid-sentance when Marius walks into the kitchen. He breaks into a broad grin, and presses a mug of coffee into Marius' hands. “Good morning, sunshine.”  
  
Behind Courfeyrac, a taller man lights the dented stove with a match, and turns up the gas under a pan of hash browns.  
  
“This is Combeferre,” says Courfeyrac. “He lives downstairs.”  
  
“Pleased to meet you,” Marius says.  
  
Combeferre has a firm handshake, but a warm smile. “Courfeyrac tells me you're a runaway,” he says. “You've come to the right place.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
Combeferre glances between Marius and Courfeyrac, and sighs, pushing his glasses up his nose. “You mean to tell me Courfeyrac hasn't filled you in?”  
  
“Don't look at me like that, I didn't have time,” Courfeyrac protests. “Bossuet brought him home late last night, looking like a little lost puppy. All I could do was bundle him into bed and kiss him goodnight. He can decide for himself if he wants to stay.”  
  
“You should know the risks,” says Combeferre. “Have a seat.”  
  
Marius sits obediently at the rickety wooden table, and Combeferre joins him.  
  
“This entire building is condemned – these apartments, and the former Café Musain below,” says Combeferre. “It was scheduled to be bulldozed last May, but some of us have been living here for years. We're in the process of claiming adverse possession under common law.”  
  
“Squatter's rights?” says Marius.  
  
Combeferre peers at Marius, and smiles. “I'm impressed.”  
  
Marius looks down at his coffee, awkward under Combeferre's confident gaze. “I study law at the Sorbonne,” he says. “Or I did, anyway. I'm not sure if I can continue, now.”  
  
“Nonsense,” says Courfeyrac. He sets three plates of hashbrowns on the table, and settles himself crosslegged in the chair beside Combeferre. “Lots of students live here. We'll help you get on your feet – you'll be fine.”  
  
“Don't get ahead of yourself,” Combeferre says, quietly. He turns to Marius. “Unfortunately, the city is reluctant to allow us to remain here. Our organization isn't exactly obedient to the government.”  
  
“We're Les Amis,” says Courfeyrac. “You might have heard of us.”  
  
Marius hasn't, in his middle-class suburban bubble, but he nods politely.  
  
“Combeferre is right,” Courfeyrac continues. “Delanoë wants us out of the way, as quickly and quietly as possible. We're just waiting for the riot cops to show up one night and clear us out. At this point, it's a matter of when, not if.”  
  
“It doesn't help that several corporations have made generous bids for the property,” adds Combeferre.  
  
“We're a nuisance,” says Courfeyrac. “But that's, like, our whole thing.”  
  
“ABC squat is a direct action experiment in autonomous living,” says Combeferre. “A way of showing the people of Paris that rent is a bourgeouis scam, and property is theft. At the same time, we're supporting families who would otherwise be on the streets.”  
  
“And kids like you who run away from their rich grandparents,” says Courfeyrac. “Speaking of which, I never got the full story out of you last night.”  
  
Marius shrugs. “I've been disowned.”  
  
To his surprise, Combeferre places a hand on his shoulder. “I'm sorry. Remember that you're not responsible for your grandfather's ignorance. My own parents were angry when they found out, and I wasted time blaming myself.”  
  
“Found out what?” says Marius.  
  
“That I'm gay, of course,” says Combeferre. “I'm sure your grandfather loves you very much, but he's from a different generation, and – ”  
  
“Oh,” says Marius, and he feels a blush creeping up his face. “I'm not gay – I mean, that is, it's fine that you are, but I'm – not,” he finishes weakly.  
  
Courfeyrac smothers a laugh in a bite of hashbrowns. Combeferre just smiles, without missing a beat. “I'm sorry I assumed.”  
  
“What did you do to piss the old man off?” says Courfeyrac.  
  
“It's because of my political beliefs, I guess,” Marius sighs. “I don't remember much of the argument, to be honest. He told me I betrayed the house of Gillenormand and he couldn't stand to look at me anymore.”  
  
“What are your political beliefs?” says Courfeyrac, leaning in.  
  
“Liberal democrat, I suppose.”  
  
Courfeyrac smirks and stands, clearing away the plates. “Grey shade of quiet mouse color,” he says.  
  
“What does that even mean?” Marius whispers.  
  
Combeferre pats him on the back. “Don't worry about it. You're welcome here, for as long as you feel comfortable staying.”  
  
“A second cup for anyone?” Courfeyrac calls out from the stove, brandishing the coffee pot.  
  
Combeferre stands. “No thank you. Enjolras is waiting for me to look over his zine, and the stencils for Feuilly's new street art piece.”  
  
“Tell our fearless chief I said hello.” Courfeyrac winds a long knit scarf around Combeferre's neck; he has to stand on tip-toe to reach. “He's been locked away with his laptop for days.”  
  
“I will,” Combeferre promises, and leans down to kiss Courfeyrac twice on each cheek, firmly and quickly. He lingers for a moment on the last kiss, and Courfeyrac tilts his head up, burying his nose in Combeferre's curls. Combeferre's hand curves, briefly, around the back of Courfeyrac's neck.  
  
Marius realizes he's staring, and turns abruptly to the window.  
  
“Later, Marius.” There's an amused edge to Combeferre's voice, as if he knows exactly how strange Marius feels. Then he's gone, his footsteps heavy on the unstable staircase.  
  
“I'll give you a tour of the rest of the building, whenever you like. Combeferre shares a room with Enjolras, who you'll meet soon enough. Jehan, Grantaire, and Feuilly's room is the best, of course – they've covered every wall with murals and poetry, and they're working on a larger piece in our common area.” Courfeyrac turns, and pauses. “Alright, Marius? What are you staring out the window for?”  
  
“No reason,” Marius knocks back the rest of his coffee. And really, there's no reason for this lightheaded feeling, like his old life has been knocked out from under him.  
  
–--  
  
True to his word, Courfeyrac shows Marius around the building that afternoon. And over the next week, Marius finds himself settling in. He attends classes as if nothing has changed, tries not to think about tuition for the next term, and comes home to his mattress beside Courfeyrac's bed.  
  
Courfeyrac snores sometimes, but so does Marius. And he lives as if every night is New Year's Eve, but Marius stays up 'til all hours reading his textbooks. All in all, they make surprisingly good roommates.  
  
Courfeyrac points this out one afternoon. He's sitting on his bed, bobbing his head to something on his iPod, while Marius is sprawled on his stomach highlighting a paragraph on property tax law.  
  
“We make a good pair, you know, Marius,” says Courfeyrac. “We're a good match.”  
  
Marius looks up. “What do you mean?”  
  
“I like living with you,” says Courfeyrac. “You're clean and organized and kinda geeky, but you're not a total bummer. You're chill.”  
  
He lies down on his back and scrolls through his iPod, and Marius exhales and turns back to his textbook, feeling stupid without knowing why. He's not sure what he thought Courfeyrac meant.  
  
Marius comes to realize that the divisions of roommates and rooms in ABC squat mean very little – Feuilly remarks once that they're like a big family, and everything Marius has seen confirms it. Combeferre often drops in, but so do Enjolras and Feuilly. The front door is almost always open.  
  
And they spend as much time downstairs, in the large open space which Combeferre says was once a coffeehouse. Grantaire and Feuilly's mural is half-finished on the largest wall, with swirling lines of Jehan's poetry winding between a sort of visual timeline of scenes in Paris' storied history of squatter culture.  
  
Marius learns that the ground floor is not only the building's main common area, but a meeting place for the whole community. Workers and students from the neighborhood drift in and out all day, to speak with Enjolras and Combeferre, or just to have a few drinks with Bahorel or Grantaire.  
  
At the end of Marius' first week at ABC squat, Courfeyrac proposes a party “to celebrate our newest friend.” It is the best night Marius can remember having in a long time.  
  
Jehan provides the music, coaxing sweeping _vivacissimo_ pieces from his flute. Grantaire procures hash and a hookah from somewhere, and amiably gets Marius high for the first time.  
  
“Now exhale,” he says. Marius breathes out a huge cloud of smoke and dissolves into coughing. Courfeyrac laughs, watching from the slouching leather sofa, and Marius blushes but takes another hit.  
  
This time he exhales smoothly. The smoke crowds through his lips. When the hazy air clears, Courfeyrac is staring at him intently, leaning forward with his hands folded in front of him.  
  
“Hi, Courfeyrac,” Marius says. His voice feels just a little thicker and slower than usual.  
  
“Hi, Marius,” Courfeyrac says solemnly. He unfolds himself from the sofa and sits crosslegged beside Marius. When he takes the pipe's hose, their fingertips brush. “Are you enjoying your party?”  
  
Marius opens his mouth to say yes, to say thank you, but the words die in his mouth when he looks at Courfeyrac's face.  
  
Smoke pours from his mouth; he blows a perfect smoke ring, and it rises above him like a halo. His lips are reddened and full, and he slides his tongue over them. He leans in close to Marius, and his voice is low and heavy with smoke. “I'm so very, very proud of you. Working so hard in law school, living on your own, showing your bourgie old grandfather you don't need his approval. What a brave, brave boy.”  
  
A warm feeling expands in Marius' chest. He blames it on the hash.  
  
Courfeyrac takes another hit, and Marius gasps when he feels Courfeyrac's fingertips pressing lightly on his jaw, gently guiding him until their noses are almost touching. He breathes out slowly, and Marius inhales instinctively. Smoke fills his mouth, and Courfeyrac's hand falls away from Marius' face.  
  
“Good,” Courfeyrac purrs.  
  
Then he passes the pipe to Jehan, who is deep in conversation with Grantaire, and stands – leaving Marius to ignore the disconcerting warmth that now seems to have lodged itself stubbornly in his chest.  
  
The rest of the night passes with high spirits and good humor. Someone convinces Marius, in his altered state of mind, to sing along to Jehan's flute. They choose an old folk song, and at first Marius is embarrasse that his voice is so high. But Bahorel whoops and applauds when he hits a particularly impressive note.  
  
Jehan even reads some of his poetry. His style turns out to be a little more modern than the quotes from Rimbaud and Baudelaire tattooed along his arms. He favors spoken word, confrontational and visceral. Marius blushes at every expletive, while certain turns of phrase make shivers run up his spine.  
  
By the end of the night, Marius has all but forgotten the awfully confusing interaction with Courfeyrac. But even when he drifts to sleep sprawled on the sofa, that odd warm feeling hums persistently in his chest, as if someone has reached out and gently squeezed his heart.  
  
He is vaguely aware of the heaviness of a blanket being draped over him and arranged around his shoulders. He cracks open one eye, and Courfeyrac's face swims into focus, half in shadow.

“Hello,” Marius says, and then, “Goodnight.”  
  
“Sweet dreams, darling,” says Courfeyrac.  
  
Marius' eyes slide closed. The last thing he sees is Courfeyrac's smile, and in his confused near-dreaming thoughts, he imagines that he feels Courfeyrac press a soft kiss to his forehead.


	2. je suis gêné, je suis accro

After three weeks, Marius runs short on cash.

He says nothing to Courfeyrac. He stops taking the metro; instead, he walks to his classes on foot, five miles from ABC Squat to the Sorbonne. His coat is full of holes, and he shivers in the turning fall weather.

Once Marius thinks, in passing, of calling his grandfather and asking for a modest allowance. But he remembers the awful things Monsieur Gillenormand said about Marius' father. He never considers it again.

And if Courfeyrac notices that Marius comes home late every evening exhausted and sore, with blisters on his feet and a rumble in his stomach, he doesn't point it out.

But he gets up early in the mornings to make Marius coffee, and brings him a blanket and a bowl of hot soup at night. Sometimes he just sits with his chin on his knees and watches Marius intently, while he prepares coursework or studies for a test.

Courfeyrac is easily distracted, Marius has seen, and impetuous, spontaneous, carefree. But he is not self-absorbed. When Courfeyrac gives his attention to Marius, he gives all of himself without holding back, so that Marius can always sense Courfeyrac's warm presence in a room.

Marius finds himself watching Courfeyrac in turn. He has always been focused in his studies. Now he finds himself looking up from his books to make quick eye contact with Courfeyrac, before looking down again instantly, face flushed. He catalogues moments with Courfeyrac with great care, like he catalogues the few treasured books he keeps stacked on the windowsill. Something as small as a glance, a soft “hello,” or a brush of fingertips from Courfeyrac becomes the highlight of his day.

Marius does not think much of it. He allows Courfeyrac's astonishing light to invade and illuminate his life, without doubt or mistrust.

But whenever Marius imagines admitting to Courfeyrac that he has no means to support himself, he suddenly feels cold and clammy all over. He pictures Courfeyrac's beatific round-cheeked smile turning hard and stiff, and something in the thought makes Marius' heart sink like a stone. Yet not telling Courfeyrac his situation feels too much like keeping a secret.

Marius is tossing and turning with his guilt one night, when he feels the mattress sink beside him. In the thin glow of moonlight, he can see only half of Courfeyrac's face.

“Bad dreams?” says Courfeyrac.

Marius bites his lip and shakes his head. “I just can't sleep. Did I wake you?”

Courfeyrac doesn't answer. He stretches out facing Marius, over the covers, on his side with his head propped up on his elbow. “Do you want to talk about it?”

This close, Marius can feel Courfeyrac's warm breath against his shoulder, and see the long moonlit shadows of eyelashes across Courfeyrac's cheek. Involuntarily, he leans in a little. The movement is almost imperceptible but he can hear his own heartbeat, urgent. He leans back again and pulls the covers tight around his shoulders to muffle a shiver.

“I've run out of money,” says Marius. “I can't go back to my grandfather's, so please don't send me back. I would like to stay here but I don't know where my tuition is coming from. The last thing I want is to be a burden on everyone, on you – ”

Courfeyrac interrupts him, “Marius, baby, _breathe_.”

Marius stops short and takes a shuddering breath. He realized how ridiculous he must sound, speaking in a rush, hyperventilating. The corners of his eyes start to sting, and he hides his face.

“I'm sorry,” Marius says into the sheets.

Gently, Courfeyrac removes the covers from Marius' face. “What for?” he says. “You mustn't be afraid to cry in front of me.” He is strangely businesslike but gentle when he crawls under the covers beside Marius and takes him into his arms.

Marius chokes on a sob in spite of himself and curls inward towards Courfeyrac, who rubs small circles on his back. Courfeyrac hums and speaks warm words – some Marius hears, some he lets wash over him.

“It's alright to feel weak or lost or scared,” Courfeyrac is saying. His voice is low and serious, almost fierce, in a way that Marius has rarely heard before. “We'll take care of you.”

–

Courfeyrac's steady breathing is the first thing Marius hears when he wakes up. He is trapped under one of Courfeyrac's arms, and when he opens his eyes, he sees Courfeyrac's nose an inch from his face.

He takes shallow breaths and he does not move.

Birds sing shrilly outside. The sun coming in through the hole in the ceiling is warm on Marius' shoulders through his thin t-shirt.

This close, Marius can see the pattern of tiny freckles across Courfeyrac's cheekbones.

Then Courfeyrac murmurs something in his sleep and rolls away. Marius lets out a sigh and –

“He's a heavy sleeper,” says Combeferre, who is leaning against the door frame holding a chipped coffee mug.

“He was just –” Marius stammers. He doesn't know what he plans to say, but Combeferre is already turning away, hiding a smile.

“Coffee?” says Combeferre from the kitchen. He fills his own mug and, without waiting for a reply, fills a mason jar for Marius. “Two sugars? The only working coffee machine in the house is kept here. Sometimes a fellow needs a cup of coffee that isn't brewed in a tin can.”

Marius pulls on a sweater and pads into the kitchen. Combeferre is whistling something, wearing plaid pajama pants and big coke-bottle glasses. They might look humorous on a less stern face, but they suit Combeferre's wide square jaw, straight nose, and heavy brow.

“I didn't know you wear glasses,” said Marius. “They're nice.”

Combeferre hands him coffee and leans against the stove. He says nothing, but he looks straight at Marius while he stirs his coffee, as if waiting for Marius to argue his thesis.

“I like them,” Marius adds.

“Thank you, Marius,” Combeferre says solemnly. Marius wonders if this is one of those times when someone is making fun of him, and he can't tell.

Then Combeferre's face breaks into an unexpected smirk. “I normally wear contacts. I'm blind as a bat.” His eyes are bright and mischievous behind the thick lenses, and the beginnings of premature crows' feet appear at the corners when his clever smirk becomes a genuine smile. Marius looks away quickly.

“Morning, gentlemen,” Courfeyrac crows, slinking into the kitchen and attaching himself to Combeferre's side. His hair sticks up at all angles, and he's wearing his tattered Paris Violence t-shirt. Apparently it once belonged to Bahorel – it's too large for Courfeyrac, and it hangs off one shoulder.

Marius had to ask about that shirt the first time he saw it, and Courfeyrac had laughed rudely and forced him to listen to some 7” records with a lot of shouting. But the shirt looks good on Courfeyrac.

“I have plans for today,” says Courfeyrac. He takes Combeferre's coffee and drains it. “Marius is strapped for cash, and he needs a nice new coat and a warm hat and a few pretty scarves for the winter. We're going on a little field trip.”

-

“That's it now,” Feuilly instructs. “Just hoist yourself up and go to town.”

Marius is standing on Bahorel's shoulders, fingers precariously hooked over the rim of a tall dumpster. He drags his torso up, and swings a leg over, and –

“That's my boy!” Courfeyrac shrieks.

Marius turns to smile at Courfeyrac – and loses his balance, toppling headfirst into the trash. At least it's a soft landing.

“When we say dumpster diving,” Grantaire says, “we don't mean for you to literally dive.”

“I'm alright,” Marius protests, surfacing. “I can do it.”

“Get out of there,” says Courfeyrac. “I've already found you a wonderful coat.” He's holding up a leopard print faux-fur confection, slightly moth-eaten but in surprisingly good shape. “Let's go home and get cleaned up.”

-

“I'm glad we didn't bring Joly this time,” says Courfeyrac.

“He's absolutely right, of course,” says Combeferre. He's heating water in an electric kettle, to fill up a claw foot bathtub at the center of the room he shares with Enjolras. “Dumpster diving isn't the cleanest activity. But it can be perfectly hygienic if you take the proper safety precautions.”

“We all just need a nice hot bath, don't we now?” Courfeyrac beams over a stack of fluffy towels.

The bath is full almost to the brim now. Courfeyrac insisted on adding a drop of his bergamot cologne to the bathwater, and it gives off waves of fragrant steam.

“Alright, in you go,” says Courfeyrac. He stares at Marius expectantly. Combeferre is standing by with a bottle of antibacterial soap, like some kind of hygienic butler.

“Strip,” Courfeyrac prompts.

Marius feels his face get hot, but the request is reasonable. His clothes are covered in grime, and he smells terrible. He reaches to lift his stained white t-shirt over his head.

But before he has a chance Courfeyrac gives a little huff of impatience and crosses the distance between them. Then his hands are at Marius' sides, pushing up the fabric and trailing over his ribs.

“Lift your arms.”

Marius does, and his shirt comes off. He unbuttons his own jeans before Courfeyrac has a chance to reach for them. When he steps out of his socks and briefs, Courfeyrac and Combeferre are still there, standing beside the bath. When he sinks into the hot water, Marius hopes his full-body blush can be blamed on the steam.

He ducks his head under the water, relaxing into the indulgence. When he surfaces he feels hands in his hair, Courfeyrac's, working shampoo into his curls.

And Combeferre is beside the tub, lathering soap between his broad hands. “Give me your arm,” he tells Marius.

Marius lifts his arm, and Combeferre takes it in both hands. He meticulously attends to each of Marius' limbs, washing away the day's filth and leaving his skin flushed and soft, while Courfeyrac tugs gently at Marius' hair and massages his scalp.

At one moment he thinks he feels lips brush terribly softly against his knuckles. Involuntarily, Marius lets out a little contented gasp. Courfeyrac hums in assent behind him. But when Marius looks up, Combeferre is lathering away in his brusque but gentle manner.

When Marius is clean and smells of flowers and Castile soap, Courfeyrac folds him into a towel and vigorously dries his shoulders and hair.

Marius changes into clean boxers and an old t-shirt, and when he wanders downstairs, everyone is crowded onto the beat-up leather couch sorting through the afternoon's finds.

Joly presses a cup of dandelion root tea into his hands. “It's good for your heart,” he says.

Marius thanks him and squeezes onto the couch between Joly and Courfeyrac. The tea is bitter, but warm, and Marius is grateful.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” he says, quietly and to no one in particular. They are laughing and talking, rowdy and loud, and no one seems to hear him. But he looks down at his knee and sees Courfeyrac's hand resting there lightly.

“Do you like your coat?” asks Courfeyrac.

“Very much,” Marius lies. “But I don't think I can wear it to law school.”

“I thought you might say that,” Courfeyrac says. “I'll wear it, and you can have my old coat. Deal?”

“You're very kind,” says Marius.

Courfeyrac presses his knee.

“We won't find your tuition in a dumpster, of course. But a friend of mine, a book publisher, is looking for an assistant translator. Do you read German or English?”

“I'll learn,” says Marius.

-

The following Monday, Marius takes the metro to class. Courfeyrac's blue wool peacoat is a little too big on Marius' scrawny shoulders, and a little too flash for his modest tastes. But when he turns up the ridiculous high collar against the wind, he catches a little of Courfeyrac's distinctive scent – bergamot, homebrewed cider, milk chocolate. He smiles to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading darlings! xx
> 
> chapter title is from des nuits entières by paris violence, a very fun french oi! band:  
> j'ai du mal à contrôler mes pulsions  
> elle répond rien à mes conneries  
> je suis gêné et elle aussi je suis accro
> 
> i have trouble controlling my impulses  
> she doesn't respond to my bullshit  
> i'm embarrassed and also addicted


	3. dans la vie il faut s'en faire

Marius wakes one night to a pounding at the wall beside his head. The room is pitch dark, and when he rolls over and checks his phone, the clock tells him it's just after three in the morning. He groans.  
  
“It's the Jondrettes,” he hears Courfeyrac whisper from his bed across the narrow room. Moonlight illuminates Courfeyrac through the cracks and holes in the ceiling; Marius can just see the outlines of his nose and jaw.

“The what?”

“They're always up to something,” Courfeyrac says. “Monsieur Jondrette is a kind of beggar king, a mastermind of underground economic activities, a blackmarket playboy – like Peachum in _The Threepenny Opera._ ”  
  
“Beg your pardon?”  
  
“Jesus, Marius, I can't believe you don't know Brecht. Remind me to take you to the theater one of these days.”  
  
“If the Jondrettes are so unsavory,” Marius asks, “why do you let them stay here?”  
  
Courfeyrac laughs. “They were here before us,” he says. “Anyway, I suppose everyone has to survive somehow.” He rolls over, and within five minutes Marius hears him peacefully snoring.

The next morning, Marius is walking to the communal bathroom to brush his teeth when he bumps into a Jondrette in the hallway.

She grunts like a boy when they collide, and Marius apologizes hurriedly. When he draws back, he sees a woman, like no woman he's ever seen before.

Her hair is long and grimy and wild, framing her gaunt face, with long bangs that hang over her hard eyes. She wears loose, mismatched clothes stitched together from soft cotton, denim, corduroy, wool. Some of the patches are decorated with stenciled designs; it looks like Feuilly's handiwork.  
  
She looks like she's about to hiss and skitter away like a feral cat, but instead she breaks into a wide smile. “Eponine Jondrette,” she says. Her voice is low and smoky, and she speaks too quickly. “And you are?”  
  
“Marius Pontmercy.” He extends a hand; she slaps it amiably and pulls him into a hug.  
  
“Pleasure,” she says. “Make yourself at home, call on me if anyone gives you trouble, stay away from my dad. You're bunking with Courfeyrac, aren't you? Funny little round-cheeked man with a big laugh?”  
  
“That's right,” Marius says. He wouldn't have described Courfeyrac as funny, or little, but the image makes him smile.  
  
“A man like that and a pretty thing like you? Watch out, he's a real charmer,” she winks.  
  
She pats him on the back and darts away down the stairs, leaving Marius clutching his toothbrush, caught between confusion and warmth for this strange new friend.  
  
Five minutes later, the penny drops. Pretty. She called him pretty. He smiles to himself in the cracked bathroom mirror.  
  
-

The publishing house owns one small third floor office. Marius has his own desk with a large window that looks out on quiet rooftops. He generally arrives at seven in the morning on weekends, and pores over complicated German texts all day, carefully sounding out words like _der_ _Bezirksschornsteinfegermeister_ in blackletter script, leafing feverishly through his dictionary.  
  
His boss is withdrawn, and Marius is thankful. The man doesn't care where Marius lives, what his politics are, or who his family is – only that he is a friend of Courfeyrac's who can muddle his way through German.  
  
He gets caught up in a project and stays late, until the office is deserted and rain sheets down the windows. Marius is just about to turn off the lights and head out, when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket.  
  
 _Combeferre:_ The 6 train is down. I am outside your office and I see your light. May I come in??  
  
Marius immediately sends an affirmative. He knew that Combeferre works in a hospital nearby, but he didn't realize that Combeferre also knew the whereabouts of his office.  
  
Combeferre is upstairs in another thirty minutes. His hair is covered in raindrops. He looks about as pleased as a cat in the bath. Wordlessly, Marius takes his long canvas jacket off his shoulders and hangs it in the staff coat closet.  
  
“Thank you, Marius.” Combeferre leans against the wall and rubs his eyes.  
  
“Long shift?” Marius asks.  
  
“Very,” says Combeferre. “And I can't stand the rain. We can catch another train in forty minutes, but I'd much rather wait inside.”  
  
Marius puts on the electric kettle on his desk for tea, and Combeferre wanders around the office, taking chapbooks from the shelves and leafing through drafts.  
  
“This is your work?” says Combeferre. He's holding a sheaf of papers from Marius' desk, something Marius thought he had thrown in the bin weeks ago. It's Marius' own translation of a gift from Jehan, a selection from Rilke's _Duino Elegies._  
  
“Oh, it's nothing. It's personal,” Marius stumbles to explain. “I don't normally translate, I'm a copy-editor.”  
  
But Combeferre is already pouring over the scribbled draft, picking out words and phrases and testing them on his tongue. “ _Comme si par oubli_... _étrangetés dans l'air de minuit_ _…_ Interesting.” He stares at Marius over the papers. “This is very good.”  
  
“It's really nothing –”  
  
“Nonsense,” Combeferre insists. “You show a remarkable command over both languages. If you tighten this up, it's worth publication. I haven't found a decent French translation of _Duino_ in years. You shouldn't sell yourself short, Marius.” He sets the draft down again on Marius desk. “Walk with me to the metro?”  
  
On the train home – and ABC squat really is beginning to feel like home – they sit side by side in relative silence. Marius has trouble striking up conversation at the best of times, and he's rarely encountered a presence as imposing as Combeferre.  
  
It's not that Combeferre is intimidating – he laughs and smiles easily, gives generously, and loves nothing more than play-wrestling with the children of families in the squat. But he seems to guide the energy of a situation around him, always moving towards a goal just out of Marius' sight. Combeferre is capable in a way that makes Marius shiver and go silent.  
  
But questions plague Marius' mind, and he finally asks, “If you work at a hospital, why do you live at the squat?”  
  
"I'm an ER nurse,” says Combeferre. “It's decent pay for terrible hours. I'm not wealthy. I could afford an apartment – but our reasons for squatting are complicated and manifold.”  
  
Marius is quiet as the train rumbles through echoing dark, as they stumble together up cement stairs, as Combeferre holds his coat aloft to keep the rain off both their heads while they sprint through dim streets to shelter.  
  
He thinks of each of the inhabitants of ABC squat – Les Amis, artists and punks, struggling families like the Jondrettes and students like himself. All living outside of the law in a crumbling condemned apartment building. Why would anyone with the means to leave choose to stay? Why would anyone choose such a mad, wild life?  
  
Combeferre shoulders the front door open. Laughter fills Marius' ears immediately, the common room is crowded with bodies obscured by blankets, smiling and talking. Courfeyrac is crouched beside the fireplace, trying to produce a spark from damp matches. When he looks up and sees Marius and Combeferre he gives a delighted shout and beckons them over.

Combeferre drapes his coat over a chair and sinks into it. In the light of many lamps Marius realizes just how exhausted the man looks – bags under his eyes, his hair wild where he tugged at his curls. In his armchair surrounded by the cheerful voices of his friends, he closes his eyes and it's actually visible when the tension leaves his body.

“I didn't even realize,” Marius says. “You love living like this.”  
  
Combeferre cracks one eye open and looks at him sidelong, like a lazy cat. “Who wouldn't?”  
  
Grantaire tosses Courfeyrac a lighter and the fire leaps to life at last, casting a warm flickering glow over the room.  
  
“I always thought of squatting as a temporary necessity,” says Marius, “not a way of life. I assumed that anyone with the means to live in a legitimate apartment, to pay rent or even buy a home, would do so.”  
  
Combeferre says nothing. Both his eyes are open now, and he holds Marius under his gaze, his face unreadable. Combeferre's eyes are beautiful and warm, deep black and almond-shaped and heavy-lidded, with the graceful beginnings of crows feet at the corners. Now they are sharp and intelligent, and at the same time something else – weary, Marius realizes. When Combeferre looks at Marius, his eyes turn weary.  
  
Marius hadn't even realized Bossuet was listening, until he slowly speaks up from the sofa, “You believe that only a state-sanctioned life is legitimate?”

Marius flushes and stammers, “Of course I know it's wrong that good Parisians are forced to live in poverty. And I know you believe that capitalism is to blame. But think of the blessings capitalism has brought to France. Advances in science, in medicine, in technology – what could be greater?”  
  
“To be free,” says Combeferre.

The sudden fervor leaves Marius, he bows his head, wilts. Combeferre rises without meeting his eyes again. The wavering firelight casts half his face in shadow. He takes his coat with him and calmly walks upstairs.  
  
The only sound is the crackling of the fire, until Marius hears a voice from upstairs. It is Combeferre, singing, wild and tender –  
  
 _As we come marching, marching, we battle too for men,  
_ _For they are women's children, and we mother them again._  
 _Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes;_  
 _Hearts starve as well as bodies; give us bread, but give us roses!_

Marius quietly repeats, “mother ...”

Enjolras squeezes his shoulder. His grip is stronger than Marius would have imagined from such slender hands.

“Comrade,” he says, “my mother is the collective.”

-

Later, Courfeyrac finds Marius alone in their shared room, studying with his textbook on the pillow and his legs under the covers. He holds out a steaming mug like a peace offering.

“Hot chocolate,” he says. “We heated it over the fire and it's absolutely delicious, I didn't want you to miss it.”

Marius takes the mug but does not drink. He sets it on the floor the side of the mattress. He feels sick to his stomach, and it frustrates him that Combeferre's disapproval affected him so strongly.

Courfeyrac sits cross-legged at the far end of Marius' mattress. “It's not any fault in your character,” he says. “Combeferre is kind, but he makes no allowances. He's strong in his ideals, and sometimes he doesn't realize when he's alienating others.”

He unfolds his legs and scoots closer to Marius, placing a hand on his knee. “I promise you're welcome here, so don't take what I'm about to say as a personal criticism,” he says. “But you've got to understand that some of us – Combeferre, Enjolras, myself – are utterly devoted to this life. We love this squat and this collective, because it shows us a freedom that we never knew before. Our work is all to show the whole world that same freedom.”

“It's not always easy,” he continues. “Sometimes we smell bad, sometimes we find dinner in the trash, sometimes we lose our tempers, sometimes bad weather comes in through holes in the roof. But we're here for each other through the good and the bad. And it's so worth it, Marius, you'll see.”  
  
The warmth of his hand travels through the layers of blanket and flannel pajama pants to Marius' knee. Marius feels a lump in his throat. He's desperate to ask what Courfeyrac means by that, by his patient words and gentle touch.

“You're welcome here,” he says, quieter, and it's answer enough to the question Marius couldn't ask. “I'll talk to Combeferre. He understands you mean well.”

“No,” Marius says hurriedly. “Let me talk to him. I should patch this up myself.” Courfeyrac might tell him he's welcome, but he remembers the bitter disappointment in Combeferre's eyes. He falls backwards on the mattress with a tiny frustrated sigh.

Courfeyrac smiles. He withdraws his hand from Marius knee, but rather than standing and moving to his own bed across the room, he stretches out on his stomach on top of the covers. He rests his head on his folded arms beside Marius' pillow. “God, you're so responsible,” he says, light and teasing, but Marius can hear the real approval under his words.

Marius flushes and tilts his head away, staring up at the hole in the ceiling. Beyond the crumbling plaster he can see a star, or maybe a planet – Venus, he thinks.

“What was that song?” he asks.

“What song, Bread and Roses?” Courfeyrac hums a couple of bars. “It's an old feminist labor song, Combeferre loves it. Of course he does – it refers to the inherent revolutionary possibilities of domesticity, and the right to not only survival, but dignity.”

Marius turns onto his side, facing Courfeyrac. “You sounded a little like him, just then.”

“Like Combeferre?” Courfeyrac smirks. “Well, I was quoting him.”

Marius laughs out loud, his eyes sliding shut, and he hears Courfeyrac join him. Courfeyrac's laugh is deep and expansive, a full-throated belly laugh. It feels good to laugh like this. Marius gets a stitch in his side and the tightness in his throat relaxes.

His eyes, when they open, are met by another pair very close. They are almost nose-to-nose. Courfeyrac is smiling with his teeth, an easy lopsided grin. His lips, Marius observes, are redder and fuller than average. They look soft.  
  
He draws his eyes back up to Courfeyrac's, and the other man's expression has subtly changed. Now Courfeyrac's gaze is intense as he looks at Marius' lips, the curve of his neck and shoulder, his hands fidgeting with the blankets, then up again to make eye contact. He raises a hand to Marius' face, hovers it alongside his jaw.

“Marius,” Courfeyrac says. His voice mulling over the name is sweet, dark, and smooth as molasses. “Have you ever been kissed?”

Marius swallows. He needs a drink of water and a walk in the fresh air; he needs Courfeyrac closer, touching at all points. “No,” he says, so quietly he can't even hear himself.

“I'm sorry, could you repeat that?” says Courfeyrac. His fingertips are just barely brushing against Marius' cheek.

“No,” says Marius, feeling a blush rising. “I've never been kissed.”

Courfeyrac is perfectly still for a count of three. Then he lets out a low whistle. “Oh, my,” he says, suppressing a laugh. He sinks his hand into Marius curls and tugs gently, then his hand is gone and he's standing, moving to his own bed.

Just like that, the spell is broken. Marius pulls a blanket around his shoulders and tries to ignore the insistent pounding of his heart.

-

Again Marius wakes to strange sounds, this time from above. He opens his eyes and Eponine's face is framed by the hole in the ceiling, peering down at him.

“Pssst,” she stage-whispers. “Come up to the roof. It's a clear night, you can see Venus, and I've got a 40 and some of those vegan zucchini muffins Joly made.”

“How did you get up there?”

“Just go down the hall, past the bathroom, and take the ladder up to the trapdoor.” Her face disappears.

It's chilly outside. The light of dawn is just starting to creep over the city, but Venus and the moon are still visible just over the horizon. Like the rest of the building, the rooftop is covered in bright graffiti. A makeshift container garden is sprouting from empty bottles and old boots.

Eponine offers Marius the corner of a blanket, a sip of her 40 oz., a muffin. He accepts it all. His head feels heavy and his thoughts have been muddled ever since the argument with Combeferre. The cheap beer has a pleasant dulling effect on his nerves. When Eponine slides an arm around his waist, he doesn't flinch away. He leans into the friendly touch.

“When you called Courfeyrac a charmer,” he asks, as the sun begins to rise over Paris, “what exactly did you mean?”

“I was just messing with you,” she says. “I mean, he's got a reputation, I'm not gonna lie.” She takes a drink and doesn't elaborate.

Marius sighs and unfolds himself from the blanket. “I ought to get ready for class,” he says. And then very quietly, when he finds his legs unsteady, “ _Crap._ ”

Eponine laughs at him, loud and shrill. “Lightweight!” she shouts. “Drink some water and you'll sober right up, you didn't have that much.”

In the morning half-light, he swings himself through the trapdoor and stumbles down the hall. He can hear noises, unidentified voices and muffled nonverbal sounds, from Courfeyrac's rooms.

Over time, Marius has become increasingly comfortable with many of the social and architectural quirks of ABC squat. But the absence of doors in most of the doorways still catches him off-guard.

Standing in the doorway to the bedroom he shares with Courfeyrac, the view is a blur of light and dark skin, muscles clenching and shifting, the slide of bodies together. Combeferre grunts, Courfeyrac arches up.

Marius makes an involuntary noise, an embarrassing squeak. Courfeyrac's face appears over Combeferre's shoulder and he meets Marius' eyes. He _moans,_ long and low and wild. Then his eyes slide closed.

Marius jolts away from the doorway then, as if he was paralyzed for the moment and has just been reanimated. Shoulders high and face blank, like his soldier father, he walks out into the hall.  
  
He leans his head against the wall and meticulously lists every curse word he knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from le responsable by jacques dutronc -- 
> 
> j'veux pas chanter comme grand-père  
> dans la vie faut pas s'en faire  
> et j'veux chanter au contraire  
> dans la vie il faut s'en faire  
> pour être toujours solidaires  
> de ceux qui comme moi voient clair
> 
> i don't want to sing like grandfather  
> "in life, you don't have to worry"  
> and I want to sing to the contrary  
> "in life you have to worry"  
> in order to always be in solidarity  
> with those who like me see clearly


	4. a man like that's like an unmade bed

  
Marius struggles to remember the meditation techniques he learned from Joly. Stay grounded, breathe deeply, don't think of the sheen of sweat across Courfeyrac's exposed neck.  
  
He can hear Courfeyrac moaning through the thin walls.  
  
Marius shudders.  
  
He takes stock of his predicament. He is standing in the hall outside the rooms he shares with Courfeyrac, who Marius has just seen - _deshabille_ , in the buff, naked as a jaybird, rolling in the hay. And Courfeyrac saw Marius watching him. He looked straight into Marius' eyes, with his fingernails digging into Combeferre's shoulders and his legs around Combeferre's waist.  
  
Marius realizes, with a familiar sinking feeling, that he must leave and never return. But where would he go? Back to his grandfather's? He's not going to give up the past three months of hard work over this.  
  
As morning light starts to creep across the warped and splintering floorboards, he resolves to talk to Courfeyrac later, to let him know that Marius doesn't mind if Courfeyrac is gay. They are friends, after all. It's not a lifestyle Marius is used to, but he mustn't let his grandfather's prejudices influence him. It might be awkward living with a gay roommate, but it's clear enough to Marius that Courfeyrac isn't attracted to him.  
  
He looks at his watch. If he leaves now, he'll only be a few minutes late to his 6 a.m. seminar. He glances down at himself and realizes he's still in his pajamas - a worn-out ribbed tank top and baggy flannel pants. He inches closer to Courfeyrac's rooms. The moaning has been replaced by gentle snoring. If he's very quiet, he can run in and grab a change of clothes, and get out the door in five minutes.  
  
He creeps on tip-toe inside, past the big windows behind the dining table, and through the open doorway into Courfeyrac's bedroom. He deliberately avoids looking at Courfeyrac's bed while he rummages through drawers. He discards his pajamas hastily and tugs on the first trousers and dress shirt he finds, struggling with buttons in the half-light.  
  
As he's struggling to button his shirt collar with one hand while lacing his shoes with the other, he hears a pained groan behind him. Then he hears Combeferre's voice grumble, " _Merde_."  
  
Marius freezes, not daring to turn around. Did Combeferre put two and two together, and realize that Marius walked in on him and Courfeyrac? Marius squeezes his eyes shut. Combeferre is already angry with him, after all, and everything Marius does only seems to drive Combeferre further away.  
  
"Marius," says Combeferre, "can you tell me the time?"  
  
"Half past five."  
  
" _Merde_ ," Combeferre repeats, with feeling.  
  
Cautiously, Marius turns around. Combeferre is sprawled across Courfeyrac's bed, shrouded in the duvet. His arm is thrown across his eyes to block out the blaze of sunlight coming in through the hole in the ceiling above Marius' bed. Courfeyrac's curls are just visible above the duvet, his head pillowed on Combeferre's - naked, very naked - chest, and his hand curved around Combeferre's shoulder.  
  
Combeferre lets his arm fall away from his eyes and squints at Marius. He fumbles on the bedside table until he finds his glasses. "Do you need help with that?"  
  
Marius is about to ask what he means. But Combeferre is already heaving himself out of bed, dislodging Courfeyrac, who falls into the sheets with a thump but continues to snore contentedly. Marius returns to struggling with his buttons, until he feels Combeferre's knuckles brush against his neck.  
  
Marius yelps, and draws back, but Combeferre grabs his shoulders and makes an irritable shushing noise. He's wearing nothing but plaid boxers. "Your collar is crooked," he mutters. His mouth is an inch away from Marius' temple, and his hands are gentle and competent as he unbuttons Marius shirt, all the way down to the tails. He pulls the seams straight, broad palms smoothing the fabric across Marius' shoulders. He buttons it up again, and tugs the collar straight.  
  
Combeferre stares at Marius for a moment, as if he's about to ask a pressing question. But he doesn't say anything. He drops to his knees, and laces Marius' shoes. Then he stands and pats Marius on the back, just once, firm. Warmth radiates from the place where his hand was.  
  
"I'm sorry I woke you," Marius says, buttoning his coat and winding a scarf around his neck.  
  
"It's a good thing you did," says Combeferre. "I have a shift at the ER at six. Are you on your way to work?" He's rummaging around on Courfeyrac's floor, finding his clothes and tugging them on.  
  
"I have class, actually," says Marius.  
  
"At six?" Combeferre shrugs on his long canvas coat.  
  
"Yes, my morning seminar."  
  
"How nice," says Combeferre. "We'll walk to the metro together."  
  
Marius opens his mouth to reassure Combeferre that he's quite alright by himself, that he know the way perfectly well now. But Combeferre has already taken Marius' upper arm in one firm hand, and is leading him down the zig-zag staircase and into the morning.  
  
Walking side by side to the metro, Combeferre keeps his hand hooked around Marius' elbow, as if he's afraid Marius will be caught by a breeze and carried away. Or maybe he senses Mariu's nervousness, and realizes that Marius irrationally finds the touch grounding. But he couldn't possibly know that.  
  
Here at the outskirts of the city, the sidewalks are neglected, and scraggly weeds grow tall from cracks in the pavement. The sound of birdsong is cacophanous, and they walk past a sparrow taking a bath in a rainpuddle. When the funny little bird flutters his wings and fluffs himself to dry off, flinging a cloud of water droplets from his feathers, he reminds Marius of Courfeyrac after a shower, shaking out his curls.  
  
"Listen, Marius, I need to talk to you." Combeferre says. He doesn't stop walking, just keeps up the same brisk but casual pace. "It's about Courfeyrac."  
  
Marius feels his heart sink in his chest. Does Combeferre know? Did Courfeyrac gossip that he caught Marius gaping at the two of them in bed?  
  
Combeferre exhales heavily and his breath mists up his glasses in the cool morning air. He purses his lips, and for once he looks as if he's at a loss for words. Until he says, "Has Courfeyrac ever said or done anything that made you feel uncomfortable?"  
  
Marius' first instinct is to hastily reassure Combeferre, but he hesitates. He thinks of everytime Courfeyrac has called him a pet name, baby or sweetheart or darling. He remembers the time Courfeyrac kissed him, ever so softly, on the forehead. Or did he imagine that?  
  
But those moments didn't make Marius feel bad. They made him feel cared for, and something else, something he can't pin down. "No, never," he says.  
  
Combeferre visibly relaxes. "Well. Good," he says. "I hope you don't take this the wrong way. Courfeyrac respects boundaries absolutely. He's just not always the best at gauging where those boundaries begin or end. But if you tell him, he will honor your wishes."  
  
 He stops walking, abruptly, and Marius stumbles to a halt as well. Combeferre's hand is still resting on his arm. "Marius, if you ever feel unsafe with anyone in the squat, I want you to tell me. Do you understand?"  
  
"Yes," says Marius. Combeferre is still staring at him expectantly, so he adds, "I promise."  
  
That seems to satisfy Combeferre. He picks up the pace again, one hand in his coat pocket and the other still curved around Marius' arm. His stride is long, and Marius has to trot to keep up.  
  
"Combeferre," Marius says, "can I ask you something, too?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
 Marius bites his lip. "Are you still angry with me, about what I said the other day?"  
  
"I was never angry with you," Combeferre says. "My only anger is for a society which teaches its young men that power equals success."  
  
Marius nods. "Courfeyrac explained your song to me, and I think I understand now."  
  
"I thought you would," says Combeferre. He smiles, but his eyes are serious behind his thick glasses. "You are an exceptionally bright boy, after all."  
  
Marius feels himself flush, and he looks away. The word doesn't bother him, exactly. But he feels something unfamiliar whenever Combeferre or Courfeyrac call him a boy, a brave boy, a smart boy, their boy. "I'm not a little boy."  
  
"Forgive me," says Combeferre, inclining his head. "A bright young man."  
  
The air is chilly and brisk, but the sun comes out from behind a cloud, and Marius feels its warmth on his shoulders. Then he feels warmth along the length of his arm. He realizes that Combeferre's hand is sliding down his forearm, then lower, fingertips brushing against his wrist. Combeferre clasps Marius' hand in his.  
  
He looks at Marius, the corners of his mouth twitching, and says, "It's a quarter 'til six. There's a train in two minutes, and if we make it, we'll barely be late at all. I won't lose my job, and you won't be marked tardy." He grips Marius' hand a little tighter, and says, " _Run_."  
  
And Combeferre is off, the long tail of his coat flapping. He tugs Marius along right behind him.  
  
-  
  
The lecture hall is overheated. His professor is droning on, something about protection for intangible forms of corporate property, and Marius' mind wanders. He tugs at his collar, still buttoned all the way up, and feels a bead of sweat run down his neck.  
  
He thinks of Courfeyrac this morning, the way the lamplight caught the sweat on his neck. He remembers Combeferre bending his head to lave his tongue across Courfeyrac's pulse point. He wonders if it tasted like salt. He wonders how Combeferre's mouth felt, pressed against the base of Courfeyrac's jaw.  
  
He knows he shouldn't be thinking about this. He shouldn't know what his friends, his dearest friends who have done so much for him, look like stretched out naked together. Marius shifts in his chair, remembering how Courfeyrac pressed his whole body against Combeferre, as if he needed him even closer.  
  
He stands abruptly, and shuffles out of the row of desks, apologizing profusely to his neighbors. He slips through the back door of the lecture hall and down the hall, out the wide double doors into a large paved courtyard.

 He rests in the shade under an archway, leaning against one of the imposing Beaux-Arts pillars, and struggles to catch his breath. The fresh air feels good on his skin.   
  
Marius glances to his left and his right, and when he's sure no one is watching, he opens the top two buttons of his shirt. He lets his eyes slide closed, his pulse evening out. But in the darkness behind his eyelids, he finds the image of Courfeyrac and Combeferre, as if it's engraved there. He remembers how they kissed, Courfeyrac straining up hungrily and Combeferre bending down to meet him, running a hand through Courfeyrac's hair and tugging sharply. It must have hurt, but Courfeyrac had moaned and begged Combeferre to do it again.  
  
Marius wonders what it would feel like to be kissed like that. He wonders what it would feel like to be kissed at all. He wonders why no one seems to want to kiss him.  
  
"Are you alright?"  
  
Marius cracks one eye open. There's a woman leaning against the pillar opposite him. She's short and curvaceous, with a wispy brown pixie cut and an amiable heart-shaped face. She lights the cigarette between her red lips, and takes a long drag.  
  
"Kiss me," says Marius.  
  
She quirks one eyebrow up, and delicately removes the cigarette from her mouth, tapping off the ash. "No way in hell," she says cheerfully. "I'd fuck up my lipstick - and I'm a lesbian."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
"Why, do you think you might be a lesbian?"  
  
"No," Marius flushes. "I just - nevermind. I probably wouldn't be good at it, anyway."  
  
"At being a lesbian? Don't sell yourself so short," she smirks.  
  
"I mean I wouldn't be good at kissing," Marius says, frustrated. "I'd probably do it all wrong. I'd probably bite him by mistake."  
  
"Maybe he'd like that," says the woman.  
  
Marius imagines pressing his teeth against Courfeyrac's soft bottom lip. Oh. Maybe that  _would_ be nice. He groans and presses his face against the cool marble pillar. "See, there's so much I don't know!"  
  
The woman leans closer and squints at him. "Are you sure you're alright?"  
  
"I'm almost twenty-four and I've never been kissed," Marius says, staring at his shoes. "I'm afraid I'll get it all wrong, and I think there might be something wrong with me."  
  
"Nonsense," says the woman. She stubs out her cigarette. "What's your name, sweetie?"  
  
"My name is Marius Pontmercy."  
  
"I'm Cosette," she says. "Look, Marius Pontmercy - I don't know a lot about the world of men, but I do know that they can be shortsighted, and awfully stupid. If this boy was worth the effort, he would have kissed you a long time ago."  
  
"I don't even want him to kiss me," Marius protests, a little too loudly. A gaggle of girls passing by in the courtyard turn to look at him, and giggle behind their hands.  
  
"Sure you don't, hon," says Cosette. "But when you figure out what you want, go for it. Until then, you should relax." She fishes around in her purse, and pulls out two bonbons wrapped in shiny paper. "Eat bonbons, and don't worry so much."  
  
"Are you an angel?" Marius asks, popping one of the chocolates into his mouth.  
  
-  
  
That night, Marius finds Courfeyrac reading in bed. He's never seen Courfeyrac so quiet. The heavy book is open in his lap, and his curls fall into his face when he bends over to turn the page. He lifts a hand to push his hair out of the way, and catches sight of Marius.  
  
Marius falters, stunned. The last time he made eye contact with Courfeyrac, it was over Combeferre's naked shoulder.  
  
"Hi," says Courfeyrac. He doesn't say anything else, just runs his tongue over his lips, glances down at his book and then up again. His eyebrows are tilted up in the way they always are when he apologizes for something. He seems almost shy, and it makes Marius' heart ache. Of course, it makes sense. He must be worried that Marius won't accept him.  
  
Marius shuffles forward and sits gingerly on the edge of Courfeyrac's bed. He folds his hands in his lap, unfolds them, folds them again, braces them behind him and digs his fingernails into Courfeyrac's duvet. He takes a deep breath. "I accept you," he says in a rush.  
  
Courfeyrac's expression shifts from apologetic to confused. "What on earth do you mean, Marius?"  
  
"I accept that you're gay," Marius says, blushing fiercely, "and I don't mind sharing a room with you."  
  
" _Oh_ ," says Courfeyrac. He looks like he's about to laugh, but he reaches out and lays a hand over Marius'. "That's sweet of you, but I'm not gay."

"Really?" Marius realizes he's new to all this, but there seems to be evidence to the contrary.  
  
"Honestly, Marius, don't worry about it. As long as you're comfortable, I'm comfortable. Not everyone is straight or gay." Courfeyrac leans close and whispers, "I'm an equal-opportunity lover." He dissolves into giggles.  
  
Marius remember's Cosette's advice. Maybe he's worried enough for one day. Right now, his best friend is beside him laughing himself silly, and what else really matters? Marius settles into the pillows on Courfeyrac's bed and fishes in his pocket, pulling out the second bonbon and unwrapping it reverently.  
  
When Courfeyrac surfaces from his laughing fit, he shifts so that he's sitting beside Marius, balances the book between their knees and begins to read aloud. Occasionally he pauses, underlining something or scrawling a note in the margins. At the end of a wordy passage, he glances sidelong at Marius, and trails off. He doesn't look away; his lips are slightly parted.  
  
"What's wrong?" says Marius.  
  
"You've got -" he reaches out, hesitates, and withdraws his hand "- a little chocolate at the corner of your mouth."  
  
"Oh," says Marius. With great focus, he slips his tongue out the side of his mouth, and licks it away. "Better?"  
  
"Yeah," says Courfeyrac, but he doesn't look away from Marius' mouth.  
  
Marius' fingers are sticky with chocolate. Without thinking, he raises them to his mouth and licks them clean.  
  
Courfeyrac makes a ragged noise at the back of his throat. He shuts the book with a snap, and clambors off the bed, pulling on his coat. "I've got to get some air."  
  
Marius is confused all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> marius sure is taking his sweet sweet time exploring his sexuality, huh
> 
> chapter title from "unmade bed" by sonic youth:
> 
> a man like that's like an unmade bed  
> stained eyes searching for another way out  
> do you really even want this  
> maybe you just don't care  
> all I know it takes just one kiss, babe  
> for you - he's never there


	5. we're rats at cupid's table but we're fine

The Jondrette family shares two rooms, with the central wall half-collapsed. The windows are small and grimy, but light leaks in through cracks in the plaster. The first thing Marius sees when he enters is a sagging, threadbare couch against one wall. A balding man, undoubtedly Monsieur Jondrette, is stretched out across the cushions fast asleep.   
  
Marius hears humming, the crackle of the radio, and the babble of running water. He circles behind the jagged edge of the caving wall. Eponine stands at the sink, scrubbing a coffee mug clean. Her shaggy hair is pulled up in a bun high on her head, revealing a tattoo on the back of her neck, the outline of a sharp fang.

“What’s this?” Marius asks, fiddling with the volume control on the radio.

Eponine turns to him, surprised, and smiles. “Monsieur Pontmercy!” she exclaims. The radio crackles sharply and she irritably smacks it, to no effect. “It’s a _radio libre_ station broadcast off a roof in the Île de la Cité. They’re reporting on a squatter’s rights case.” She adjusts the antenna and the sound sputters into clarity.

“— _sixty squatters, including twenty-seven children, occupy this abandoned office building in the 10 th arrondissement. The occupants were aided by Les Amis de l’ABC, an infamous activist group which helps to situate families in abandoned buildings throughout the city. Now, the future for these families is unclear. Depending on the outcome of their suit for adverse possession, some occupants could be evicted as early as next month. With winter coming fast, the stakes are high._”

Marius glances around the narrow room. It isn’t exactly weatherproof. The weak points of the walls look like they would crumble into nothing at the slightest gust of wind. He remembers the first autumn rain, when Courfeyrac duct-taped a plastic bag across the gaping hole in Marius’ ceiling. Surely such a makeshift solution won’t weather the winter.

“Courfeyrac said your family has lived here much longer than Les Amis.”

“For a year and a half, almost,” says Eponine.

“So you stayed here through last winter?”  
  
“Not to mention countless winters in worse conditions,” she says. “Don’t look so worried yet. As long as we have a roof over our heads and kindling for the fire, we’re alright. But if we’re evicted — then it’s time to worry.”  
  
“Enjolras acts as if there could be a police raid any moment,” says Marius, trying to crack a smile.

“There could be,” Eponine says casually, as if being driven from your home is a regular thing to expect, like the autumn equinox or the first cherry blossoms in spring.

“Why don’t I ever see you at Les Amis’ meetings?” Marius asks.  “You have a thousand times more real life experience than I do.”  
  
 She sets the coffee mug aside and begins scrubbing at a cast-iron skillet, fingertips clenched into the steel wool. When she shrugs, her hoodie slips halfway off her narrow shoulders. There’s a coin-sized discolored patch under her bra strap, a fading bruise. “I’ve got a lot on my plate,” she says.

Eponine switches through the stations on the radio. Marius picks up a dishcloth and begins drying the stack of gleaming dishes on the countertop.

“You don’t have to do that,” says Eponine, in the way that people do sometimes when they’re secretly pleased to have the companionship, side by side with the clatter of dishes and the radio humming low.

“I want to,” says Marius. “Isn’t that the point of communal living? Helping each other out in small, but significant, ways?”

Eponine gives him a strange look, the sponge clasped in her palm dripping slowly onto the floor. “You’ve been spending too much time with them,” she laughs, turning back to the sink. “In my world, it’s every woman for herself.”

“The funny thing is, that’s the kind of world my grandfather believes in,” says Marius. “But it benefits him.”

“I’m doing alright looking out for myself.”

“You absolutely are,” says Marius. “But I’d be completely lost. After three months sharing a room with Courfeyrac, just being alone at night is starting to get to me.”

Eponine glances up from her work, surprised. “What happened to him?”

Marius shrugs. “He’s been bunking with Combeferre and Enjolras for the past three days.”

“And you have no idea why?” Her eyebrows are raised, as if he just announced that Courfeyrac eloped with an investment banker.

“No,” says Marius. “Is that strange?” He had just assumed that Courfeyrac wanted to spend more time with Combeferre. Spending less time with Marius is nothing more significant than collateral damage.

“It’s a funny way to treat your boyfriend, that’s all.”

Marius almost drops the plate he’s holding. “Boyfriend?” he squawks.

Eponine grabs the plate out of his hands as he fumbles it. “Boy toy, friend with benefits. There’s something going on there. What, you think it’s not totally obvious?”

Marius’ forced laugh comes out as more of a strangled squeak. He shakes his head vehemently. “You’ve got the wrong idea. We’re just friends.”

“Whatever,” Eponine shrugs. “I won’t pretend to know shit about your private life. I’m just saying, I’ve seen the way he treats you. Like you’re a china doll. If he’s avoiding you, he’s probably scared of hurting you. You should talk to him.”

Marius is more hurt by Courfeyrac’s absence than anything he can imagine his friend could say. But he supposes that one of them has to break the silence sooner or later, and Courfeyrac certainly hasn’t made a move yet.

-

Marius does not act on Eponine’s advice immediately. Whenever he starts down the rickety staircase to the room Combeferre and Enjolras share, he barely reaches the first landing before the walls close in on him and his throat tightens, heart pounding hard. He turns back every time. He isn’t ready to face the possibility that Courfeyrac is sick of him.

He can’t bring himself to take over Courfeyrac’s abandoned bed. Every night he lies awake for a full hour on his mattress on the floor, hoping that Courfeyrac will come back on his own.

On the fifth night, Marius is just starting to doze off when a flash of lightning illuminates the room. He jumps half out of bed; thunder rolls a minute later, and he shivers back into his blankets. He tries to block out the storm and fall asleep, but he tosses and turns and finally gives up.

As a very small child, Marius used to run into his Grandfather’s bedroom during thunderstorms and hide in the huge four-poster bed, his head all the way under the covers.

Marius glances over at Courfeyrac’s bed. He can’t help but indulge the fleeting fantasy of Courfeyrac inviting him under the big quilt and holding him until the storm had passed. Marius crosses the tiny room, the floor cold on his bare feet, and passes his hand across the quilt and onto Courfeyrac’s pillow. As another clap of thunder rattles the walls, he springs into the bed and clutches the pillow to his face. It smells just like Courfeyrac, warm and sweet.

Clutching Courfeyrac’s pillow, Marius falls into a deep sleep long before the storm passes.

He wakes up half an hour before his alarm rings, feeling well-rested, warm under the quilt. He shifts, and realizes that his dick is heavy, hard against his leg.

He takes a deep breath, trying to will it away, but his breath is filled with the scent of Courfeyrac lingering on the sheets. His dick twitches. Marius bites his lip and reaches down to palm himself through his pajamas.

A moan escapes him, and he blushes at how high and boyish his voice sounds. He imagines Courfeyrac scolding him teasingly, telling him to be quiet before the whole squat finds out how absolutely depraved he is. Marius shivers and slips his hand under his waistband, wrapping his fingers around his own dick.

He tries to think of the images he usually turns to when he has to deal with morning wood, half-remembered photographs of pretty women with big breasts in the magazines his friends hid under their beds when he was a teenager.  

Instead, he thinks of Courfeyrac murmuring in his ear, “That’s it, my beautiful boy.”

Marius comes with a shock along his spine, spilling across his palm.

He cleans himself hurriedly with a tissue, and sits up, pushing the quilt off his knees. Something shiny flutters out of the sheets. Marius catches it and holds it up to the light.

It’s the gold foil wrapper from the chocolate given to him by the angel in the courtyard of the Sorbonne. He’s about to toss it into the wastebin, when something catches his eye. Printed on one side are the words “THE LARK: YOUTH CRISIS CENTER,” followed by an address and a phone number. Marius recognizes the name of the street; it’s barely two miles away.

Before he’s sure what he’s doing, he’s pulling on clothes and shoes and clattering downstairs, hand clutched around the chocolate wrapper in his pocket.

-

He ends up in a waiting room with a low ceiling and brightly colored couches. Signs on the wall offer information on counseling services, youth groups, free yoga classes.

Marius isn't sure what he expects to find here. He only knows three things: that he is definitely not gay, that he has suffered from a sharp and persistent pain in his chest since Courfeyrac has been absent, and that these facts are somehow connected.  
  
The receptionist is busy taking a call, so Marius flips through the informational pamphlets in a rack on the wall. He pockets one, titled “YOU ARE NOT YOUR ADDICTION” in optimistic yellow lettering, to pass on to Grantaire later.

Behind it, another glossy cover catches his eye. It’s a cartoon of a young man with his chin resting on his hand. A thought bubble floats beside him, with a fuzzy image of two people kissing. At the top, purple bubble letters say, “QUESTIONING?”

Marius is intrigued. He feels something in common with the young man on the pamphlet. He thinks about kissing a lot lately, after all. Maybe he’s “questioning.” Smiling to himself, he picks up the pamphlet and opens it.

_Not quite sure if you’re straight or gay? It’s OK! Questioning your sexuality is a common experience. Sexuality can be fluid, and some people are more comfortable without labels. The important thing is to follow your heart!_

Growing up, Marius always assumed that he must be straight. For his Grandfather's social echelon, heterosexuality was the default. But Courfeyrac lives in a different world, full of a thousand kinds of beautiful people who kiss each other with abandon. Marius' heart is pulling him towards that world, away from the rules he thought he knew.

The receptionist hangs up the phone with a click, and calls out to Marius, "Can I help you?"

Marius folds up the pamphlet and tucks it away in his breastpocket. "No, thank you," he says, beaming. "I think I found what I need."

But halfway out the doorway, he turns on his heel. "There is one other thing —"

"Yes?" The receptionist peers at him over her pink cat-eye glasses.

"I think I met someone who works here — about this tall, short brown hair, angelic? She gave me a chocolate."

"You must mean Cosette," says the receptionist. "She's on call at the moment, but I can take a message, if you like."

"Just tell her I said thank you," says Marius.

 _-_  
  
When he gets back to ABC Squat, Marius takes the stairs at a trot, straight to Enjolras' and Combeferre's room. He pounds on the door, always one to knock in spite of the casual attitude Les Amis take towards closed doors.

"Courfeyrac!" he calls. "Courfeyrac!" Maybe he's over-urgent, but he can't wait to win his friend back.

He hears footsteps inside, then the door opens. It's Combeferre.

"Marius, what on earth?" he says. He looks frazzled, still wearing scrubs, as if he hasn't had time to change since his early morning shift. His curls are flattened on one side, like he dozed off on the metro. "Is there an emergency?"

"I need to speak to Courfeyrac, please," says Marius.

"He's out, I'm afraid," says Combeferre. "Holding a picket line with Enjolras."

"Oh," says Marius. His disappointment must be obvious, because Combeferre sighs and steps to the side.

"Well, don't just stand there," he says. "Come inside and tell me all about it."

This room is the smallest in the squat. The floor is bare, exposed concrete. A twin mattress is crammed into one corner.The clawfoot tub is upside-down today, serving as a makeshift coffee table. The exterior wall has been repared so many times that it's now a patchwork of different building materials, bricks and two-by-fours and corrugated steel. There are no windows, just a bevy of lamps perched on stacks of books. Every available surface is covered with books and zines; an encyclopedia supports the broken leg of a threadbare armchair. Combeferre sinks into this chair, putting his feet up on another towering pile of books.

"Make yourself comfortable," says Combeferre, waving a hand.

Marius gingerly lowers himself into a rickety wooden folding chair.

"I can tell you're dying to say something," says Combeferre. "Out with it."

"I figured out why Courfeyrac has been avoiding me, and I'm going to fix it." says Marius. "I feel awfully sorry for making him feel uncomfortable under his own roof. I don't want to be like my Grandfather. Or like your parents," he adds.

"Marius," says Combeferre. He rubs his eyes under his glasses ."You misunderstand. Courfeyrac doesn't think you're homophobic."

"Well, he should," Marius says vehemently, almost rising out of his chair. "Because I was. But I'm not anymore."

“That’s wonderful, Marius,” says Combeferre, bringing his hands together once. “But it’s not why Courfeyrac is avoiding you.”

“I thought you’d be pleased — wait, what? It’s not?”

 “No, it’s not.” An electric kettle, plugged into a wall outlet and perched on a radio, whistles shrilly. Combeferre stands and carefully circumnavigates the cluttered floor. He retrieves a chipped mug from a high bookshelf, and shakes a copy of Kropotkin’s _Conquest of Bread_ until a teabag falls out of the pages.  He curls into his chair again, sipping his steaming mug of tea and flipping through his book.

“Aren’t you going to tell me why?” Marius says tentatively, after five minutes of this.

“I certainly am,” says Combeferre. “But first I’m going to read, and finish my tea, and change out of my scrubs. I might even take a short nap. You’re welcome to wait.”

Marius does. He sits with his hands folded in his lap and watches, until Combeferre drains his mug and closes his book. Combeferre looks up at him, then. “Do you see that milk crate, Marius? Below the portrait of Angela Davis?”

Marius nods.

“You’ll find a pair of plaid pajama pants, folded, at the top.”

Marius finds them; when he turns back, Combeferre has removed his scrubs and folded them neatly. Marius averts his eyes, face hot. He’s still adjusting to the unconventional attitude towards nudity at the squat. Combeferre changes into the pajama pants efficiently, turns down the covers on the twin mattress, and sits cross-legged against the pillows. Combeferre pats the mattress beside him, face inscrutable.

“Come over here and I’ll tell you a story about Courfeyrac,” he says.

Warily, Marius makes his way over to the mattress. Combeferre is still shirtless. For the first time, Marius is at leisure to appreciate how well-muscled his shoulders are, deltoids curving elegantly into triceps.  He has a patch of curly dark hair on his sternum, and a trail that dips below his pajamas.

When Marius perches on the edge of the mattress, Combeferre loops one long arm easily around his waist, and Marius can’t resist relaxing against the warmth of Combeferre’s side.

Combeferre hums and threads his fingers into Marius’ curls, which have grown out long and disorderly since he arrived. He strokes the pad of his thumb across Marius’ temple, and Marius shivers and leans closer.

From this vantage point, he notices faint lines just a shade darker than the skin over Combeferre’s heart, a faded tattoo. Marius glides his hand just over the skin, which rises and falls with Combeferre’s calm breath. “What’s this?” Marius asks.

Combeferre looks down, and smiles. “It’s hard to see now,” says Combeferre. “It’s an old stick-and-poke. It says ‘guide.' Courfeyrac gave it to me, not long after we first met. My parents had only recently made it clear that I could no longer live under their roof. Courfeyrac was a student who went on holiday and never came back. We were living in our first squat.”

“Why ‘guide’?” Marius asks.

“Courfeyrac has boundless energy,” Combeferre says, “and he doesn’t always know where to direct it. When he was younger, that energy sometimes expressed itself as recklessness. Risky behaviors. He got into a lot of fights – usually on behalf of me or Enjolras. It all came to a head when he jumped a train to my hometown and tried to break into my parents’ house. Enjolras had to shout at him over the phone for twenty minutes before he would  give it up. When Courfeyrac realized his mistake, he was so upset and ashamed that it took me another hour to talk him down. He assumed that I wanted revenge, without bothering to ask me. He had so much love in his heart, and gave himself so fully to other people, that he lost sight of his own needs and the needs of those he loved. He overextended himself, and he ended up hurting people.”

As he speaks, Combeferre runs his fingers through Marius’ hair, brushing it back from his forehead. “Meanwhile, I was so driven to succeed in spite of my disadvantages that I was blind to the here and now. Courfeyrac showed me simple pleasures and everyday joy. We realized that we balanced each other. I need him to keep me centered, and he needs me to offer guidance. We’re better with each other.”

Marius worries his lower lip between his teeth. He had no idea how much history Combeferre and Courfyrac had together, but it’s not hard to see how devoted they are to each other. It was silly of him to think that he could ever be important to Courfeyrac.

Combeferre pushes a lock of hair behind Marius’ ear and runs his hand along the curve of Marius’ jaw. He takes Marius’ chin between his thumb and forefinger and gently but firmly tilts it up. “This is where you come into the story.”

Marius furrows his brow. He’s not sure how he fits in. “I understand if Courfeyrac has trouble trusting me,” he says. “I won’t push him.”

Combeferre shakes his head. “You’ve got it backwards,” he says. “Courfeyrac is afraid of pushing you too far. He likes you, and he cares about you. He’s worried that either his desire or his protective instinct will get the best of him. He doesn’t want to take advantage of your inexperience, but he doesn’t want to shelter you, either.”

“He told you all this?” Marius asks.

“No,” Combeferre smirks. “But he ran in here at two on a weekday morning, babbling about your perfect mouth and sweet smile. He’s not exactly inscrutable.”

 _But you are,_ Marius thinks.

He doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud until Combeferre laughs, low in his throat. “Am I?” he says.

“So just to clarify,” Marius says, “Courfeyrac wants to kiss me, but he doesn’t want to kiss me, because I’ve never been kissed?”

“That’s an oversimplification,” says Combeferre, “but basically, yes.” Combeferre shifts, turning onto his side so that he’s supported by one elbow, facing Marius. “And what do you want?”

Marius flushes. He imagines Courfeyrac kissing him, first on his forehead, then his cheek, then on his lips, softly. He imagines Courfeyrac kissing him another way, hard and messy and passionate. He imagines Courfeyrac touching him, the same way Marius touched himself that morning. He remembers walking in on Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and he imagines doing that with Courfeyrac, rutting against each other wildly.

He discovers that he can’t imagine anything he doesn’t want. So he says, “Everything.”

Combeferre exhales in a huff, almost a laugh. His pupils are blown wide in his dark eyes. Quietly, he says, “Then everything you shall have.”

 Marius shifts closer on the mattress. “If I were more experienced in kissing, do you think that Courfeyrac would kiss me?”

“I think he would be amenable, yes,” says Combeferre. He’s smiling, and his mouth is a soft bow curve.

“Will you help me practice?” Marius closes his eyes, bracing himself for Combeferre to say no.

Instead, he feels a hand at the back of his neck, guiding him. When he feels Combeferre’s breath soft against his lips, he starts forward too fast, and their noses crash together. Combeferre draws back, reassuring him that it’s alright, and Marius tries again.

Combeferre’s lips are slightly chapped from the cold weather. His hand moves from the nape of Marius’ neck into his hair. Marius moves against Combeferre’s mouth eagerly, and when he feels Combeferre’s tongue slide across his mouth, his breath hitches but he opens to it. Their teeth bump together at first, but Combeferre shushes Marius’ apologies and shows him how to fit together easily.

Marius finds that he likes this very much. He lets Combeferre take the lead, but he becomes more demanding as Combeferre teases him, pressing closer to Combeferre on the bed. He scrapes Combeferre’s lower lip with his teeth, and starts to apologize. But Combeferre’s eyes flutter shut and he grunts low, tugging Marius closer.

He slides his hand up the front of Marius’ coat, fiddling with the buttons. But he pauses over the breastpocket, pulling away from the kiss. He slips his hand into the pocket and pulls out the “QUESTIONING?” pamphlet. He makes a soft, almost sad noise.

“What’s wrong?” says Marius.

Combeferre folds the pamphlet up again, tucking it back into Marius’ pocket. “Do you promise to talk to him?” he asks, suddenly serious.

“Of course,” says Marius. “I want to straighten things out.” He swallows his fear, and adds, “I want to do more of this.”

“Good,” says Combeferre, and he grins. “This room is getting a little crowded with Courfeyrac moping around.”

He slips an arm around Marius’ waist and pulls him in. This time their lips fit together more firmly, surely.  Feeling brave, Marius skates his hand across Combeferre’s bare chest, feeling for the steady beat of Combeferre’s heart under his tattoo. Combeferre hums into the kiss, and Marius wriggles closer, until they are chest-to-chest.

Marius is so focused on Combeferre that he doesn’t hear the door open. But when someone gasps loudly, they both start, and pull apart.

It’s Courfeyrac.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from blue headlights by shout out louds:
> 
> jon-jon had surprising eyes and narrow black suede shows,  
> a war to fight in paris and a sister with the blues.  
> pusique ton papa est en voyage you've heard your mother making  
> love is not what we are jon-jon, you and i  
> are rats at cupids table but we're fine
> 
> thanks for reading as always! xx


	6. the sound of limitations exploding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for (relatively mild description of) police brutality

Courfeyrac is angelically framed, for just a moment, against the glow of light in the doorway. His tentative smile makes Marius’ breath catch in his throat. But it's gone as soon as it came.

Courfeyrac steps aside, into the shadows of the small room, and Enjolras is striding in with wild hair and eyes ablaze.

“The police have moved in on _La joie_. They’re being evicted.”

“Evicted?!” Combeferre shouts, immediately on his feet, at the same time Marius repeats, “ _La joie_?”

“ _La joie de vivre_ ,” Combeferre clarifies. “A squat in the 10th arrondissement – we helped them get settled.”  
  
“But I heard about this on the radio last week,” Marius remembers. “They weren’t expecting eviction for another month, at least.”

“ _C’est la vie_ ,” Enjolras says grimly. He tosses a shirt at Combeferre.

“For Christ’s sake, Enjolras,” says Combeferre, tugging the shirt over his head. “You might’ve called me. I thought you were picketing parliament – not defending the squat itself.”

“Things progressed,” says Enjolras.  
  
“Escalated, you might say,” Courfeyrac adds. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He looks more exhausted than Marius has ever seen him.

“We needed to come back here, to regroup,” says Enjolras, pacing the small space. “ _La joie_ is under siege. We had to sneak into the alley. Our choices are clear-cut. Either we send reinforcements, putting ourselves at risk, or we leave them to the cops.” He stops still and turns to Combeferre, his eyes almost pleading. “I need your help,” he says, voice low.

Combeferre is immediately at Enjolras’ side, a steadying hand on his elbow. But his demeanor is authoritative when he says, “Our choices are _not_ clear-cut. No choice ever is. How many cops did you see?”

“Twelve when we left,” Courfeyrac answers. “In full riot gear. They’re ready for war, that’s for sure.”  
  
Combeferre swears under his breath. “How many children in the squat?”  
  
“Two dozen?” Courfeyrac guesses. “Maybe more.”  
  
“We can’t encourage them to defend the building,” says Combeferre.  
  
Enjolras begins to protest, “It’s their home –“

“I know,” Combeferre interrupts. “Jesus, don’t I know. But if we send reinforcements, so will the police. They’ve already shown us they’re prepared to fight dirty. The violence will only escalate. We’ll lose this one in the long run, no matter what we do.”  
  
“So, what?” Enjolras throws up his hands in frustration. “We’re going to abandon them to the police?”  
  
Combeferre actually grasps hold of Enjolras’ hands, in mid-air, and gently guides them down to his sides. “Certainly not,” he says. “ We’ll sneak everyone out of the building, through the same alley you and Courfeyrac used, and offer them refuge here.”  
  
Enjolras exchanges a glance with Courfeyrac, then nods, tightly. “You’re right. It’s the best we can do.”

Courfeyrac slips out to debrief the rest of Les Amis, and Marius is left standing awkwardly between Combeferre and Enjolras, as they methodically fill their backpacks with tools and medical supplies.

“Is there anything I can do?” Marius asks.

Enjolras looks up, confounded. “Sorry?”  
  
“Is there anything I can do to help?”  
  
Combeferre and Enjolras both start to speak at once, incomprehensibly, then exchange an unreadable look.  
  
“I don’t see why he can’t –“ says Enjolras.

“Don’t start,” says Combeferre, warning.  
  
“I’m clean-cut,” Marius says. “I mean, relatively. I could talk to the police – distract them, while you sneak everyone out the back.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” says Enjolras.

“It’s too dangerous,” says Combeferre.

“Sneaking sixty squatters out of a building surrounded by cops is my fucking nightmare,” says Enjolras. “We _will_ need a distraction.”  
  
“I want to do it,” Marius says, decisively.  
  
“Then it’s decided,” says Enjolras, tossing a first-aid kit to Marius.  
  
Combeferre looks like he’s in pain.

-  
  
They meet Courfeyrac downstairs. He’s going with them, but by Enjolras’ decision, he’ll stay at the peripheries and keep watch. If anything goes wrong, he’ll be there to pick up the pieces.  
  
When he realizes that Marius is coming along, Courfeyrac doesn’t say anything. He just grabs Marius’ arm, rolls up the sleeve, and writes a phone number in thick black sharpie on the soft underside of the forearm.  
  
“Your number?”

“In case something happens,” Courfeyrac says quietly.  
  
The specifics go unsaid – in case Marius’ phone is lost, or taken from him. In case he’s not the one making the call. In case he’s found somewhere, in some condition.  
  
Silently, Courfeyrac does the same for Combeferre and Enjolras. The three of them stand side by side with an identical code scrawled across their skin, the reminder of a shared protector, a beacon to guide them back to him.  
  
-  
  
Marius jogs past the building once to size it up, iPod blasting in his ears, looking as much the part of an athletic young law student as he can with his overgrown hair and threadbare clothes. There are sixteen cops lined up at the front entrance to the building, faces obscured by riot helmets. They clearly intend to stay until the squatters are starved out and surrender.

Parked on the corner is a paramedics van. An elderly man sits on the curb, face in his hands, bleeding from a cut at his temple. Marius recognizes him as a beggar he occasionally sees on the Metro.

“I was just passing by,” the old man keeps repeating. “They took me for a rioter. I was just passing by.”

Marius doubles back, slowing his jog as he approaches the wall of riot police. “Excuse me, officer!” he calls out to no one in particular. Three helmets turn to stare at him, comically hesitant.  
  
“What’s going on here?” he says. “I live in the neighborhood. I just got off work, and I come home to a riot, in _my_ neighborhood?”

“Everything’s under control,” says one of the helmets.

“I feel unsafe,” Marius declares. “I can’t go home and sleep soundly in my own bed until you tell me exactly what’s going on. Surely I have a right to know? As a neighbor?”  
  
He’s stumbling along, trying to keep their attention without attracting their suspicion, when he hears a shout at the other end of the building. He cranes his neck, and almost gasps at what he sees.

It’s Cosette, the woman who offered him chocolate, the woman who led him to the Lark. She’s a blur of motion, and anger, shouting something at a cop –  
  
– who pins her arms behind her back, presses her against the pavement, a raised baton –  
  
– Marius darts between police, broken out of their formation by this disruption. Cosette is handcuffed now, still on the ground. Her breath comes in a painful wheeze.  
  
“I know this woman!” Marius shouts. “What on Earth has she done wrong?”

“You know her?” says one cop.  
  
“She was trying to get into the building,” says another, more chatty than his fellows. He’s not in riot gear, instead hovering at the periphery of the scene in the trim uniform of a DI. “She claimed to be a crisis counselor. She expected us to believe her.”  
  
“She _is_ a crisis counselor,” says Marius. “Jesus Christ. Her name is Cosette, she works at the Lark Youth Crisis Center, and she carries chocolates in her purse –“ He chokes on his words. There’s a thin line of blood running down Cosette’s jaw.

“Let me take her home,” he says quietly.  
  
“Who did you say you are?” says the chatty cop. He’s tall, and stiff in his speech and manner. If there’s anything Marius learned in his years in high society, it was how to impress this particular kind of monster.

He pulls himself up to his full height. “My name is Marius Pontmercy.”

It doesn’t take the man long to connect the dots. He’s the type of sad character who reads _Who’s Who_ for fun. Marius Pontmercy – surely it must be _that_ Marius Pontmercy, heir to the well-respected Gillenormands, student of the law. Marius Pontmercy, a man who knows people who know people who could easily put a few riot cops out of a job.  
  
“Inspector Javert,” says the man. “If you care about this young lady as much as you say, you’re welcome to pay her bail in the morning.”

So that’s how the bastard wants to play. Marius grits his teeth into a thin smile. “I appreciate your regard for procedure. I’m sure you’ll appreciate how easily I could make a case for police misconduct.”

Predictably, the blood drains from Javert’s face. He tilts his head sharply at Cosette, mouthing something to the cop who beat her. She’s out of cuffs in a few minutes, rubbing at her wrists and wincing.  
  
The first thing she says, when they’ve briskly walked a few blocks out of the way, is “What the hell did you do that for?”  
  
He shrugs. “What they did to you was wrong.”

“I was _this_ close to getting inside.”

“You were in handcuffs!” says Marius. “Anyway, what would you have done? What could you have done?”

“One of my clients was in there,” she mutters, scuffing at the sidewalk with her boot.

“And that’s in your job description? Running into buildings under police siege?”

“I know what my job is and isn’t,” Cosette says. “But I’m not just a crisis counselor, I’m a real person with a fucking heart. I can’t say, ‘Oh, this wonderful young man who’s been through so much is trapped and alone and surrounded by police, but I’m off duty so I guess I’ll go to bed.” Her shoulders slump. “I just can’t.”

“Of course not,” says Marius.

His phone chimes twice, and he stops, in the guttering pool of light cast by a grimy streetlamp.

          Combeferre: All safe. Thank you  
  
          Courfeyrac: coast’s clear, come home

He looks up at Cosette. “Your client’s safe.”

“What?” she says, stopping mid-stride and looking back over her shoulder. “How do you know?”

Marius catches up with her on the dim sidewalk. “Because my friends were in there too,” he says, “getting everyone out of there.”

After they’ve said an awkward goodbye at the Metro station, when Marius’ train is rattling off to the city’s outskirts, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and looks at Courfeyrac’s text again.

 _Home._  
  
-

“You ran into _Javert?”_ Courfeyrac leans in, voice low. They’re crowded into the common space on the first floor of the squat, sharing a fleece blanket and a mug of hot tea, learning the names of the newcomers from _La joie_ and coordinating roommate arrangements.

“Yeah,” says Marius. “It was fine, though – I impressed him with my parentage. He didn’t give me any trouble.”

“No, you don’t get it,” Courfeyrac scrubs a hand through his curls. “Oh, this is bad. Javert never forgets a face. You didn’t tell him your real name, did you?”

“I had to,” says Marius, shrinking away as far as he can within the confines of their shared blanket. “Is it that bad?”

Courfeyrac swears. “No – I mean, yeah, it’s bad. But it’s not your fault.”

“What could possibly happen? I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” says Marius.

“No, but you _will_ do something wrong. And when it happens, he’ll be there. Javert somehow turns up at every squatter riot, every eviction. Apparently he’s still chasing an old cold case, a legendary squat organizer he never caught up with,” says Courfeyrac. “He’s always looking for a new lead to follow. He’ll latch onto you.”

“And he’ll use me to get to Les Amis?” says Marius.

“I hate to say it, but I wouldn’t put it past the old bastard,” says Courfeyrac. He stares at Marius, squinting as if sizing him up. “We’ll just have to … disguise your appearance, somehow.”

“I thought you said he never forgets a face.”

“No, but he can be tricked, or mislead,” says Courfeyrac. “We’ll think of something.” He slips an arm around Marius’ waist, but pulls back almost immediately, as if burned. Marius catches hold of his wrist and tugs it back into place, guiding Courfeyrac’s hand onto the curve of his hip. Courfeyrac relaxes against him, and presses his nose into Marius’ hair. “This is getting long,” he comments, tugging at one of the loose curls.

“I know,” Marius says, glaring up at his own hairline. “I ought to cut it.”

“Naw,” says Courfeyrac. “It looks good – and if you keep growing it out, it might throw Javert off the scent.”

Looking out into the milling crowd, Marius sees the flash of a bleached streak of hair. “Eponine!”

She turns, and catching sight of him, smiles with all her teeth. She pushes through the crowd; her bushy eyebrows shoot up at the sight of Marius and Courfeyrac, cozy under their blanket. “Been looking for you everywhere, Pontmercy.”

“What’s up?” says Marius.

“It’s not good,” she says, crouching down. “See that little boy?”

She points out into the crowd. Marius sees a boy maybe twelve or thirteen years old, with wild hair and ripped jeans, in animated conversation with Grantaire.

“Gavroche,” says Courfeyrac. “One of the street kids who slept at _La joie de vivre_. He’s a good kid.”

“Damn right,” says Eponine. “He’s my little brother.”

“How wonderful!” Marius says. “How serendipitous.” The child looks like he could use a little sisterly guidance.

“My parents can’t know he’s here,” Eponine says. “And he can’t know I’m here.”

Courfeyrac and Marius exchange a glance.

“That’s a tall order,” says Courfeyrac. “He’s not planning on living here anyway, it’s not his style. He just likes a real roof over his head when it rains. But he’s a curious kid – if we tell him to stay away, he’ll want to know why.”

“It doesn’t have to be a problem,” says Marius. “Maybe it’s the right time for you to reunite.”

Eponine gets to her feet. “It’s not. Trust me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from the guillotine by the coup
> 
> "if you press your ear to the turf that is stolen  
> you can hear the sound of limitations exploding"


	7. this is for the snakes and the people they bite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for vague off-screen child abuse, and discussion thereof. nothing graphic.

Marius will be the first to confirm that, when it comes to romancing, he hasn’t had the best track record. That’s how he ends up nearly twenty-four and still reeling, _weeks_ later, from his very first kiss.  
  
Not that his options were many, growing up. In his teen years when his Grandfather was at his most possessive, Marius transitioned from his stodgy private primary school, to stodgy private lessons intended to prepare him for elite universities. He completely missed out on that universal romantic hazing zone, the _lycée_.

In spite of Grandfather’s best efforts, there were a few notable girls. His philosophy tutor, for one – a gregarious woman who went by the odd nickname Favourite, but insisted that Marius call her _Mademoiselle_ , even though she was old enough to be his mother. And although that did nothing to dissuade Marius’ fascination, he could never quite muster up the nerve to lean across the desk in the middle of a lecture on Freud and ask her to teach him another lesson entirely.

There were boys, as well, Marius realizes in retrospect – nevermind that he couldn’t parse his own affection at the time, brushing it off as boyish admiration. One summer at his aunt’s country house, he spent a full two months staring at the boy who worked in her stables, who had an easy manner with horses and an easier manner with the acoustic guitar. He was _cool_ , and a little withdrawn, the kind of boy who girls in novels would have summer romances with – not the kind of boy who would make the first move on quiet Marius.

All in all, Marius has to admit he’s a late bloomer. His romantic history is a series of stuttering conversations and ambiguous glances, uncertain even to himself – until now, when he glances up from his notes on the Mermaz Act to meet Courfeyrac’s eyes, and he’s more certain than he’s ever been about anything.

Courfeyrac is sprawled on his side by the fire, deep in conversation with a woman from _La joie._ He’s wearing this sort of dingy yellow knit pullover over a flannel button-down, and everyone’s bundled up as the mercury drops, but Courfeyrac manages to make it look _good_. Really, really good. That ugly sweater clings to his arms in a way that just isn’t fair.

Combeferre, draped in a granny-square poncho intricately crocheted in autumn colors by Feuilly, crouches down beside Courfeyrac and joins his conversation. His broad hands are curved around a mug of coffee. His fourth cup today, and Marius himself is surprised that he knows this. But Marius notices little things about people and squirrels them away – it’s what made him want to become a lawyer in the first place, even though his Grandfather favored medicine. And lately, he notices things especially about Combeferre, who has seemed that much more frayed at the edges since the raid on _La joie_.

Combeferre looks up and catches Marius staring, and smiles in that clever crooked way he does when he seems to know exactly what Marius is thinking. Marius can’t help but grin bashfully back before he hastily averts his eyes. He presses the end of his pencil against his lips, and tries to slow down his heartbeat by force of will.

Deep breaths, Pontmercy. It was just a kiss.  
  
His first kiss. A very _nice_ kiss.

Marius realizes, with that special sort of wry honesty that comes over a man so head over heels he couldn’t hide it if he tried, that of _course_ his first love couldn’t be something casual. Of _course_ he had to get mixed up in something so special that he can’t talk himself out of it.

And yet, the longer he puts off talking to Courfeyrac, the more he worries that he’s already lost his chance.

They’ve fallen back into a comfortable friendship in the month since the raid on _La joie,_ but Courfeyrac is still hesitant to touch Marius, paradoxically more so than he was when they first met. And Marius covets that touch.

He knows that ultimately he’s going to have to bite the bullet. That if what Combeferre says is right, Courfeyrac will never make a move, for fear of coming on too strong. And as much as Marius is nervous, it’s also a little bit exhilarating, knowing that it’s up to him.

He’s just waiting for the right moment.

Which proves more difficult than it sounds. Since the former residents of _La joie_ moved in, there’s even less privacy than there ever was at ABC Squat. Every second of Courfeyrac’s time is claimed by Enjolras, who only seems energized by the catastrophe, while everyone else is exhausted. Les Amis meet almost nightly. Marius sits in more frequently now, encouraged by his part in the rescue mission, but it’s clear that they’re in the kind of bind that only time will solve.

But Enjolras isn’t known for his patience. He insists that this upheaval is the perfect opportunity to make their move.

“We can’t let the pigs think they beat us,” he says one night. His dark roots are growing out, bleach-blonde curls wild around his face, radiant with a sheen of sweat. “We establish a new squat, somewhere conspicuousness, let them know _La joie de vivre_ won’t be stamped out that easy. Sure, it might not last long, but we’ll make our point.”

“We can’t do that to the kids,” Combeferre says, equally stubborn, and it’s clear they’ve had this argument before.

Marius leans over to Joly, who’s taking this opportunity to alphabetize his medicine-chest of herbal tinctures. “Is Enjolras always so…”

“Meatheaded? Well, yeah,” Joly rolls his eyes. “But only because he trusts Combeferre to keep him in check. Enjolras will keep pushing, and Combeferre won’t back down. It’s their process. If they keep at it long enough, eventually they see what we’re all overlooking. At least, that’s how it usually goes.”

“It doesn’t seem to be getting them anywhere this time.”

“That’s because this time, we’re well and truly fucked,” says Joly, slotting the last glass bottle into place with a scowl.

Joly always tends naturally towards pessimism, but Marius has never seen him so _defeated_. The situation is undeniably dire – with the spike in police raids in the past month, they can’t risk attracting attention in the way Enjolras is suggesting. The bad weather precludes dividing and conquering, scattering to other well-established squats across the city, for fear that anyone would end up left out in the cold. And at the same time, the refugees from _La joie_ can’t stay all winter – an overcrowded squat will attract police attention just as much as an all-out riot.

Every square inch of free space has been transformed into a makeshift bed. And it’s fallen to Marius and Courfeyrac to harbor the fugitive – Eponine’s unexpected little brother, Gavroche.

As much as it perplexed Marius at first, it doesn’t take him long to grasp why Eponine wasn’t jumping for joy to have her brother back home. Enjolras isn’t happy about keeping secrets, but even he accepts it after nothing more than a meaningful glance from Courfeyrac. Everyone knows all about the Jondrettes. But to Marius’ frustration, no one does anything about it.

-

It all comes to a head, one particularly chilly night. The wind is howling, long pitiful sighs that rattle the windowframes. Marius tugs his pillow over his head.  
  
Then a human voice joins the wind, closely followed by a thump and the shatter of glass. Marius sits straight up, heart pounding. Muffled yells pound through the walls.  
  
A scrawny shadow appears in the doorway, against the spill of moonlight.  
  
"It's nothing,” Marius says softly. "Go back to sleep."  
  
Gavroche slips into the room, blending easily with the shadows, and crouches down beside Marius' mattress. His eyes are bright and sharp. "I'm not a kid.” Marius smiles indulgently, but Gavroche grabs the collar of his pajama shirt in one grubby hand, pulling Marius up to eye-level.

“No, listen. I mean I don't take orders. I'm laying low here for a while, because Courfeyrac said I oughta, and he's alright. But I don't know you, I don't trust you, and I wanna know who you're keeping secrets for."  
  
"There's no big secret," Marius whispers, keeping his tone light, scrambling to remember Combeferre’s argument from the previous night’s meeting. "It's tactical, that's all. Wait out the winter here, and establish a new squat the minute the police turn their backs."

"I've been one step ahead of the cops my whole life," Gavroche scoffs, but he lets go of Marius’ collar. "What do you know –"

Another thump, shaking plaster from the interior wall. A woman's voice screams, bloodcurdling. Courfeyrac's shadow jolts in the bed under the window.

"I know that voice," Gavroche whispers. Marius' heart sinks. "I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, all right? But if you’re dreaming of some kind of heartfelt reunion, give it up now. This city is violent, always has been, always will be. Enough social workers have tried to set me straight, get me to settle down." Gavroche inclines his head towards the sound of a man shouting, harsh and low. "I left that behind, and I've lived this long, on my own. I'm not about to go back."

He stands and turns to the door, skinny shoulders hunched away from the moonlight.

"Wait a minute," Marius scrambles out of bed, and grabs the back of Gavroche's shirt, desperate. Gavroche shakes him off, but stares at him, and doesn't move to leave. "Eponine asked us to hide you."

Gavroche stumbles back, recoils, as if Marius smells rotten. There's another crash, and the sound of Eponine's choked voice makes them both wince. "So you're hiding me here – two thin walls away from that?"  
  
"It's here or a youth home." They both startle and turn; Courfeyrac is sitting up in bed. His voice is rough with exhaustion. "You know that, Gav.”

He swings his legs out of bed, and Gavroche rounds on him, ready to fight. He’s scrawny even for a thirteen year old kid, much like Marius was at that age, but he doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything. Marius can’t help but respect that.

But the fight never comes. There’s another scream, so terrible it drowns out the wind, and then nothing. Gavroche just stands there for a long time, shoulders back and head high, while the windows shake.

Then he says, “I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I,” says Courfeyrac.

To his own surprise, it’s Marius who jumps to his feet, and he hears himself shout, “Then _do_ something!”

Courfeyrac and Gavroche both turn on him, eyes wide. Marius takes a steadying breath. “I know the Jondrettes have been here longer than we have, but does that mean we can let them do whatever the _hell_ they want? Sure, Eponine doesn’t come to our meetings, but she’s one of us. We owe her protection. Azelma too, and Gavroche – why should he have to leave, when his dad is the one _beating his kids_?”

Steadying breath be damned – Marius is shaking all over by the end of his outburst. He doesn’t wait for his audience to respond. He’s halfway down the hall to the Jondrettes’ room by the time Gavroche catches up to him and grabs hold of his elbow.

“Slow your roll, man, _jeeze,_ ” Gavroche says, tone light even though he’s gone pale as a ghost. “You’re right. I’m a grown man now, I gotta stop running away and leaving my sisters behind.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant –”

“But you can’t go in there right now,” Gavroche continues, throwing a wary glance down the hall. “Thenardier’s drunk, and when he’s drunk he’ll keep hitting ‘til there’s no one left to hit. If you storm in now, he’ll tear ya to pieces.”

“Thenardier?” Marius repeats.

Gavroche grimaces. “My dad’s real name. But hey, I’ve got a plan. You gotta help me talk Ep into it, though – she still thinks she owes the old man something.”

Gavroche starts back down the hall towards Marius’ room, but he hesitates just on the threshold, and turns back to Marius. “No more secrets, okay? Secrets don’t do shit for anybody.”

Marius thinks of the other secrets he’s keeping, and he can’t help but agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from twin size mattress by the front bottoms:
> 
> this is for the snakes and the people they bite  
> for the friends i’ve made, for the sleepless nights  
> for the warning signs i’ve completely ignored  
> there’s an amount to take, reasons to take more
> 
> wow this was a really stressful chapter, i know. the next one is much more optimistic i promise. also, i'm posting two chapters in one go because it's been so long, and because i didn't want to leave things hanging, so read on .... xoxo


	8. i got hope but my hope isn't helping you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've posted two chapters at once, so be sure you don't miss chapter 7! xoxo

Getting dressed for class in the chilly grey half-light of the next morning, Marius can’t help but feel a little off. He’s meant to be here at the squat, he’s meant to be at the Sorbonne, and the dissonance between the two is starting to wear him out.

Gavroche rolls out of his cot by the table when he smells coffee, and joins Marius for a silent breakfast, before he slips out the window and scampers improbably fast down the building’s concrete façade to go and do whatever it is he does with his days.

After last night, Marius isn’t too worried about Gavroche. The kid knows exactly how much mercy his father deserves – that is, none. But he’s worried about Eponine. He’s worried about the faded bruises he’ll see the next time she decides to show her face. He’s worried she’s still clinging to blind loyalty to her father, like Gavroche said. He’s worried, selfishly, that when he tells her what they’re planning she’ll never want to talk to him again. Marius hasn’t had many friends before. He doesn’t want to lose this one.

His classes that morning seem to drag on forever, and he’s fidgety. When his Property Law professor gets on the subject of adverse possession, and mentions the eviction of _La joie_ in passing, Marius almost jumps out of his seat in his hurry to correct the stodgy old bastard.

“Actually,” Marius starts in, pinching his own elbow under his desk in an effort to keep his voice even, “although the acts of the police in this instance were justified under city policy, considering that the right to housing is a constitutional objective. When there are over one hundred thousand vacant homes in Paris, couldn’t we argue that such violent police evictions as occurred last month run counter to the nation’s overall progress towards that objective?” Marius smiles thinly at the professor, gritting his teeth.

But before the professor has time to respond, someone speaks up from the back row. “What are you, Pontmercy, some kind of squatter?”

Marius turns his head around so fast he makes himself dizzy. “Yes, I am,” he spits back, louder than he meant to. And he has really got to learn how to keep his mouth shut, because suddenly all eyes are turned to him. There’s an awkward clatter in the front of the room when the professor drops his dry-erase marker in shock.

This is the second time in as many months that Marius has walked out of a class in embarrassment, and it’s the second time he runs into Cosette in the courtyard.

Not that she’s easy to overlook. He spots her immediately in the distance, wearing an intricately beaded shawl over a loud daisy-patterned dress and sky blue tights, in some sort of gesture of opposition against the gloomy weather. She dashes over at lightning speed, kitten heels clicking on the pavement, and clasps his hand in greeting. He stoops to kiss her on the cheek, and takes a moment to breathe in her lilac perfume, already familiar and calming.

“I’ve been hoping to run into you –“ she starts, but falters. “Hey now, you don’t look well.” She reaches up and clasps his face between her palms, scrutinizing him.

He tells her the short version, focusing on his outburst in class and only vaguely touching the surface of his stressful night. She lets out a whistle. “Hey, listen,” she says. “You look like you could use some noodles. There’s this fantastic little ramen place around the corner – my treat, okay? I owe you one, since you saved my ass from the cops that night.”

When they’re settled in a sticky wooden booth with a steaming bowl of noodles between them, Marius asks, “What are you doing at the Sorbonne? Do you teach?”

Cosette laughs so hard, she has to set down her spoon for fear of spilling noodles everywhere. “Do I look _that_ much like an old lady?”

“Oh my god, not at all,” Marius says hurriedly. “You just seem so – professional.”

“I’m a part-time student,” she says. “Taking classes here and there in child protective law, minors’ rights, that sort of thing. I’m no lawyer, but it’s good to keep up to date on the policy – you know the drill.”

Marius has never met anyone more invested in what they do for a living. He tells her as much, and she laughs, but doesn’t deny it. “I couldn’t imagine myself doing anything else,” she says. “It feels like what I’m meant to do, you know?”

“I think that’s how I used to feel about law,” says Marius. “But now I’m not so sure.” He slurps his noodles dejectedly, and dabs his mouth with a napkin. “I used to think the law was eternal, I guess. But lately, it’s like there’s a huge chasm between the law and real life. I can’t reconcile it. It’s gone from seeming universal and self-evident, to looking like a foreign language.”

Cosette hums, stirring a fourth sugar packet into her green tea. “That doesn’t mean it’s useless to you.”

“I guess not,” he sighs, slumping back in the booth. “I’m just worried sick over my friends, and there’s nothing I can do to help them.”

“Sometimes I feel the same way.” When he looks across the table, Cosette’s eyes are cast down, and she’s fidgeting with the jet beads on her shawl. Her tea is untouched at her elbow, and it sends up curling ribbons of steam between them. “You know how I mentioned I had a client who was living at _La joie de vivre_? I haven’t heard from him, since that night. I shouldn’t be asking you this, confidentiality and all that, but I just need to know he’s safe. If it’s true he’s living at your squat, do you think you could check on him from time to time?”

“Of course – what’s his name?”

“Gavroche,” she says, and Marius almost spits out a mouthful of noodles.

“Yeah, I’ll keep an eye on him,” he says.

Cosette scribbles her cell number on a napkin and pushes it across the table. “Just have him call this number if he needs anything. And that goes for you, too – how’s the love life?”

Marius only groans by answer, and reaches over to swipe her tea. It’s too sweet. He drinks half the cup.

-  
  
When he gets off the train home, there’s a text from Eponine waiting for him. It’s a grainy photo, taken on her flip phone, of a view of the sunset from the roof with the message “join me pretty boy?”

Marius doesn’t stop to unburden himself of his bookbag or take off his shoes, but takes the stairs straight to the top floor. When he hoists his shoulders through the trapdoor at the top of the shaky ladder, the stars are out, and Eponine isn’t alone.  
  
Gavroche is at his sister’s side, telling some story with animated gesticulations. He makes her laugh so hard she slips backwards off her perch on the edge of a planter, falling backwards into a bed of cabbages. Seeing Marius, she shouts, “Get your nerdy ass over here, college kid!”

He’s strangely reminded of the incident in class. If he’s a dirty squatter at college, and a college kid at the squat, where does that leave him? But he knows the difference – Eponine means it lovingly.

“Hello to you too,” he says, sitting down on the concrete beside Gavroche, who punches him on the arm in greeting. “Sorry I missed the sunset.”

In this dim light, Eponine and Gavroche look so much like each other. Same long scrawny limbs, sharp indignant chins, and deep-set brown eyes. They’re almost the same height, too – Gavroche will be much taller than his sister, Marius realizes, and it’s strange and a little bit heartbreaking to imagine Gavroche as a grown man. He seems too old already.  
  
Eponine disentangles her hair from a cabbage, and leans in to Marius for a hug that knocks the wind out of him. When she pulls back, he hangs on to her shoulders and scans her face, not sure what he’s looking for but feeling anxious all the same.

“Don’t look at me like that, weirdo,” she says, and he has to drag her in for another hug. Gavroche makes a gagging sound, thirteen year old boy that he is, but over Eponine’s head Marius catches him smiling.

“So we had a chat, Ep and me, and we decided it’s about time we kicked the old folks to the curb,” says Gavroche. “Mom’s out of _la taule_ in a week, and we’ll do it then. It’s sure as shit not gonna be easy, though. They’ll keep crawlin’ back, looking for our pity – count on it.”

“You can never really run away from your family,” Eponine says. “You can keep trying to shake ‘em off, but they’ll always catch up to you in the end.” She’s still got an arm around Marius’ shoulders, and he reaches up to tug at the sleeve of her hoodie where it wrinkles against her bicep. “I’m all for teaching ‘em a lesson, but they’ll never change.”

“So what if they come back,” says Gavroche. “So we tell ‘em to fuck off again.”

“Yeah, us and what army?” Eponine says. “I know you think you’re a big man now, Gav, but you’re too young to remember the last time we tried this. It was right after the bed-and-breakfast got repoed and they moved us to Paris. We tried to run away – me, Zellie, and you, even though you couldn’t hardly walk yet. The plan was to track down that rich old man, the one who ran off with the foster kid – see if he wanted to adopt us too. You kept sobbin’ that your feet hurt. One of dad’s cronies caught up to us in the cemetery under the _Boulevard Périphérique_ , right by André Breton’s tomb. _Je cherche l'or du temps_ ,” she quotes, and laughs, not bitterly but as if she wishes she could forget.

“You’re not alone anymore, Eponine,” says Marius. He doesn’t say ‘you’ve got me,’ but he does say, “You’ve got us. Maybe we’re not an army, but we’re a relatively coherent group of radical insurgents – don’t laugh, I’m serious. More importantly, we’re your _friends_. You get to choose how you live, and if your parents aren’t part of that, we’re here to back you up. And before you tell me it’s not that easy, I _know_ that – but if there’s anything I can do to make it easier for you, just say the word. Seriously.”

She huffs, breath turning to steam in the cold, and folds in closer against his side. He pats her shoulder, a little awkwardly. But in his chest he feels that warm sort of ache you get at the moment you realize a new friend means the world to you. He’s offering to help her out, but he knows he’d be a wreck by now if it weren’t for Eponine.

“Alright, ya big saps,” says Gavroche, getting to his feet. “Save it for the after-school special. I got places to be.”

“Wait a minute,” says Marius, fumbling in his pockets. He holds out the crumpled napkin with Cosette’s number, and his cellphone. “Call this number. You have friends out there who are worried about you.”

Gavroche hesitates, but finally takes them, tucking the napkin into pocket of his jeans. He throws Marius a casual salute before swinging his legs down the trapdoor.

“I missed that little bastard,” Eponine sighs.

“I can see why,” says Marius. He rests his head against Eponine’s shoulder, and she brings a hand up to sweep a lock of hair behind his ear.

The ladder creaks behind them, and Marius turns his head expecting to see Gavroche again. But it’s Courfeyrac’s flushed face that rises from the trapdoor, looking kind of sheepish. He falters a few feet away from them, a huge wool blanket bundled against his chest.

“I heard your voices,” he says, tilting his head towards the poorly-patched hole in the concrete that opens into the room he shares with Marius. “It’s cold out, thought you might want this.”

Eponine stands abruptly, and ruffles Marius’ hair. “I think I’ll turn in, actually. The old man should be passed out by now.”

When she’s gone, Courfeyrac is still standing uncertainly, clutching the blanket.

Marius almost stands up and follows Eponine back inside, almost retreats into the warmth and bright light of the squat, and away from the cold that stings his cheeks and the nerves that grip him when he realizes what he’s about to do. But Courfeyrac is warmer, brighter. Whatever part of Marius has been looking for the right moment is now chanting, _this is it, this is it, this is it._

He reaches an arm out like a kid reaching for the hem of a grown-up’s jacket, and Courfeyrac grins, lopsided, and shuffles nearer. He throws the blanket over Marius’ shoulders, and sits against the sloped concrete wall, leaning back to show his throat with all the lights of Paris spread out behind him.

“So, Eponine, huh?” he says, and Marius can’t quite read his face. “Nice. She’s – very, very pretty. Kinda scary, too, but she’s great. _Really_ great. I’m sure the two of you –”

He’s speaking too quickly, making assumptions in a hurry. Marius takes a big breath, tells himself _You’ve been impulsive all day long, what’s stopping you now?_ , and actually leans forward and presses two fingers against Courfeyrac’s lips.

Courfeyrac’s eyes go all wide, and his lips are pressed into a thin line under Marius’ fingertips. He almost, but not quite, shivers and it’s suddenly hard for Marius’ to swallow around the lump in his throat.

“Combeferre told me you’re scared of me,” he says, and _shit_ that’s definitely _not_ an ideal start to this conversation. Courfeyrac looks like he’s not sure whether to laugh or run, and Marius wills himself not to get flustered. There’s no going back from here.

“I mean, he told me you’re scared of hurting me, and I understand why. I really do. I seem fragile, and inexperienced, and I probably cause you a whole lot of second-hand embarrassment –” at this Courfeyrac shakes his head vehemently, which is encouraging, and the words are coming easier to Marius now – “but trust me when I say that _I know what I want_ , ‘cause I don’t think I’ve ever known what I wanted before. I don’t want Eponine, oh my god. I’m not even sure I like girls, full stop, but that’s not really relevant. Look, what I’m trying to say is – I want _you_ , and I _know_ you can tell. So if you want me, do something, and if you don’t want me, tell me so. You don’t have to treat me like a china doll.”

Courfeyrac is perfectly still for what feels like _ages._ Then his mouth softens and Marius gasps, because Courfeyrac is kissing the tips of his fingers, lips so gentle it almost hurts.  
  
He takes hold of Marius’ wrist and tugs him forward, until he falls with an _oof_ against Courfeyrac’s chest, half-sprawled on top of him. Courfeyrac wraps an arm around Marius’ waist, and tugs the blanket up around their shoulders.  
  
“I’m on board with most of that,” he says, and his voice is low and warm in just the way that makes Marius’ breath catch in his throat. “But I’m still gonna treat you like a china doll.”

Marius tucks his face into the curve of Courfeyrac’s neck, and whispers, “Just as long as I’m _your_ doll.” He’s not sure if Courfeyrac hears, but his hand is rubbing tiny circles at the small of Marius' back.  
  
The air is cold around them and it’s only getting colder. Marius can hear police sirens wailing in the city below them, and Courfeyrac’s pulse is racing under his cheek. He knows this won’t be easy. He’s never been more frightened – but he’s never felt more brave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from "severed crossed fingers" by st. vincent.
> 
> thank you all for reading, as always!! i'm sincerely touched by the response to this fic. exciting news: you can now find me on tumblr at http://merrimanlyon.tumblr.com/ 
> 
> please don't be shy, i would love to talk to every one of you. xoxoxoxoxoxo


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